


Amid Darkened Waters

by phangurl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Withdrawal, F/F, M/M, Past Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phangurl/pseuds/phangurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two years since Sherlock's death, and John has gotten himself into serious trouble. He is in debt to a loan shark, and has only one way to pay. But will he ever be able to go home, or is he doomed to stay prisoner?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Come on, John!” Sherlock called over his shoulder as John followed behind him. John was tired, he couldn’t walk anymore, and no matter how many times he ran Sherlock seemed to never get any closer. “Come on, keep up John.”_

_“Just hang on. Wait a second. Sherlock, wait.” John started trying to run again._

_“We’re losing him John!” Sherlock said. John smiled a little, remembering the first time they ran around the city together._

_“Sorry.” Someone ran passed John and caught up with Sherlock. “Sorry. I’m here now.” John stopped. Who was that with Sherlock?_

_“Doesn’t matter. He’s not our suspect anyway.” Sherlock said to the other man._

_“Sherlock!” The two ahead of him turned around. “Sherlock. It’s me, Jo-” The man standing next to him was John. It was a younger version, the one who had just come home from Afghanistan, the one who had just met Sherlock. They both stared at him. “It’s me. It’s John. That’s not me!”_

_“Yes he is. I don’t have need for someone like you. I’ve got my John.” Sherlock put his hand on the other John’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want someone like you.” Sherlock looked him over. “Surely, even you can see why.” They turned around and continued walking away._

_“Sherlock!” John ran to him. Suddenly, he was falling. He hit the ground, barely able to catch himself. He looked to see what he had tripped over. His right ankle was chained. He turned back around to call for Sherlock._

_Younger John was there instead, crouching right in front of him, holding a mirror. “What would he see in you now? Look at you.” John didn’t recognize his reflection. He was thinner, paler, older than the version who stood before him. “Honestly, what would the great Sherlock Holmes want with someone like you? Perhaps that’s why he left you, to be with someone else. Someone younger, someone who could keep up with him, not someone like you.”_

_John looked down at his hands, they were dirty and damaged. They aged before his eyes. Age spots, wrinkles appeared as he watched. He looked up, again. He was on the floor still, but in the middle of a road, there were people crowded around a body a several feet away from him. “No,” he whispered as he shut his eyes. “No not now. Not here.”_

_“Good-bye, John” echoed through his head._

_“SHERLOCK!” John looked up, he was no longer at St. Barts. He was kneeling in front of Sherlock’s grave. He saw Sherlock’s reflection, smiling._

_John reached out to touch the smooth surface of the headstone. “Sherlock…” Then, he was gone. “Sherlock…. Sher-Sherlock! Don’t leave me Sherlock!!! You can’t leave me! You can’t leave me again!”_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

John heard commotion around him as he woke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember his dream. His dream would be the only thing that could get him through the day. He had to remember everything about it. He had to remember Sherlock.

Yes, most of his dreams were about Sherlock. Solving cases with him. Arguing with him. Eating dinner, well, John eating and Sherlock making deductions about the people around them. Sherlock’s smile. Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock’s coat as he fell.  _NO_ _._ John had to stop that train of thought. Sherlock’s voice.  _Yes_ _._ Sherlock’s voice as he said good-bye.  _STOP!_

He let out a soft whimper. He stopped, and opened his eyes slowly. Everyone was up and moving he was the only one still asleep.

John tried to stretch out as quietly as possible and move off his side left and onto his back, without the chains alerting the others. The floor was concrete and too hard to stay in one place as long as he has already. His shoulder was killing him, and his hips and legs were stiff. As he completely stretches his legs, his knees popped loudly. He stops, waiting to hear the sound of someone coming to unchain him. He strained his neck to the right, looking towards the only bed in the one room apartment. He could tell the bed was empty. John feels his body begin to shake involuntarily. The tremors, which had started again in his hand after Sherlock had died, had only gotten worse. Every morning they were so intense that, despite his attempt to steady himself, the chains wrapped around his body began to shake. It was his body’s way of betraying the fact that he was already awake, an alarm to his captors.

“Well, you’re finally awake.” John closed his eyes as the voice approached. “Good, I was getting hungry.”

John heard the rustle of chains and felt his body pressed closer to the floor as the chains tying him to the ground were pulled. He gasped for breath as he felt them constrict on his stomach and chest. The man was kneeling to his left as he unlocked the chains, John looked to his right, his eyes focused on his own arm. The man set the lock aside and began to unlace the chains from the hoops attached to the floor. When that was done he sat John up as he unlocked the chains binding his arms across his body and legs entwined. Once John’s restraints were gone, he rubbed his legs trying to make sure the blood was flowing. The end of the chain went around his ankle, the other side permanently attached to the floor.

“Come on. Get up!” The man grabbed John by the arm and jerked him to a standing position. “Be of some use and make us breakfast!” John was pushed towards the kitchen. The other men, having heard the chains and mention of breakfast, started getting restless. Some stepped on the chain as they passed, causing him to trip, others kicked it around as they passed. John stumbled to the fridge to see what they had to eat. Some eggs, bread, and cheese. They had to get food soon. These men were going to tear him apart when they realized this was all they had to eat.

As he cooked, he could hear them making plans for the day. The one who untied him was informing them who they needed to visit, easy marks they had noticed, money they were owed and who it was time to cut someone off. John tried not to listen, it brought back too many memories. He thought about home, sitting in 221B and waiting for Sherlock to come home… knowing he wouldn’t.  John pulled his hand back as he felt his hand get too close to the pan. He kept cooking, knowing he had to be more careful.

“Now, for tonight.” John froze as he started putting the kettle on. He didn’t want to hear. He wasn’t ready to hear about this. He kept moving the eggs around the pan. “We’ll start off with the mouth. Start at a penny as usual.” The men didn’t appear to be interested today. “Stephen, you get mouth for 3 pence. Quite a bargain. I hope you’re more eager for what else we have in store. We’ll have condoms again, so we’ll start at 5 pence.”  John grabbed the counter as he heard the men go crazy. He forced himself to breath. He needed to calm down. He took the eggs off the stove, put the bread into the toaster, and started to cut the cheese. Not for the first time did he consider dragging the dull blade against his wrists. He didn’t want to go on.

The nightmare continued as he heard the bids get higher and higher. 25 pence. 30 pence. It took everything within John not to throw up. He was shaking again. It had been two weeks since they had run out. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford any extras; John had to earn the condoms, along with pay off his debt. The fact that they only charged so little to use him meant that John could rarely afford both. Suddenly he heard someone behind him. He pulled his emotions under a mask he carefully had adopted the past year.

“Did you hear? I’ve got your mouth tonight.” John looked down as Stephen got right behind him. “I’ve never cared about fucking you, not when I can be sucked off by that mouth of yours.” Stephen leaned forward and pressed the bulge in his pants against John’s ass. “Mmmm, I’m hard just thinking about it.” Stephen grabbed John by the throat and tilted his head back. John shut his eyes to avoid looking at him. He could feel Stephen’s finger tracing his lips. “Come on, remind me how good you are, how talented that mouth of yours is.” Stephen tried to force a finger past John’s tightly pressed lips. “Yeah, tight. That’s how I like it. Remember that tonight. We’ll get to have-”

“STEPHEN!” John felt his throat get released as Stephen backed away from John. “What are you doing? Trying to get something without paying?”

“No Erik, I was just checking on breakfast. You should see what he’s doing! There’s no food at all!” Stephen was moving away from John. Erik, the man who had untied him this morning, came and stood beside John.

“Is this all we have to eat? You couldn’t make more for us? How are my men supposed to work when this is all you’ve given them?” Erik tugged at John’s shirt and forced him to turn around. John quickly looked to the ground. He wouldn’t make eye contact. He wouldn’t talk back or contradict Erik. He simply looked down just to the right of his shoes. “Are you trying to kill us? You think you can escape us that easily?” The men had gathered around and were shouting insults at John and cheering Erik. “Do you think we’ll let you go because of you incompetence? No! You are never leaving us!” The tea kettle was whistling by now. Erik let go of John and stepped back. John turned to the stove to remove the kettle from the heat, but found Erik was behind him, grabbing his wrists. “I will show you that you can’t fuck with my men!” John screamed as Erik pressed his hands against the kettle and held it there until John stopped struggling to get away. The blisters started forming immediately. John crumpled to the floor and cradled his hands against his body. The rest of the guys came and started grabbing at the food as fast as they could. Not one of them paid any attention to the man sitting on the floor next to them. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did John end up here?

After a few minutes he stood up and went to the sink to try to sooth his burned palms. As the water ran over the raw flesh, he tried to picture Sherlock standing beside him. He would probably talk about different remedies for burnt skin or talk about what happens when the skin is burned severally. He probably had a whole section of his website dedicated to the damage to skin by prolonged exposure based on heat and length of the time on offending item. Either way, he would be cold and clinical. Or would he? John couldn't remember anymore. He had forgotten things about Sherlock he never thought he would. He couldn’t remember what he looked like in detail. He remembered that he was tall and pale with black curly hair. He remembered that Sherlock had brilliant eyes, but couldn’t recall their exact color. He remembered feelings he got when hearing Sherlock speak, but couldn’t recall the sound of his voice. He couldn’t even imagine what Sherlock would say about burnt skin; let alone what he would say if he saw John now, a slave… a maid… a whore for a group of thugs.

He thought of Mrs. Hudson walking in with a tray of biscuits that she would have made for them, while insisting that she wasn’t their housekeeper. John felt shame that they had ever made her feel that she was working for them. He wished he could go back and tell her that he was sorry and do something for her to show that he did appreciated her. He wished he could make amends. To her, to Harry, to Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, everyone he had hurt once Sherlock had died. He hadn’t meant to lash out. He just wanted to be alone at first. He wanted to mourn in the place where he felt closest to Sherlock.

When he returned from Sherlock’s grave site, he locked the doors to the flat and barricaded them, trying to keep Mrs. Hudson from sneaking in to disturb him. John simply sat in the living room, reliving old conversations and cases. He found solace in the oddest things. He would often pick up Sherlock’s violin, something he always wanted to do but never dared to ask. He would place the violin under his chin, feeling an intimate connection with Sherlock. He had always considered asking Sherlock for lessons, but never did. He would softly drag the bow across the strings, making just the slightest noise until his hand tremors got so bad he couldn’t control them. He kept trying, hoping he could work through it; until, in a moment of frustration, he slammed the bow against the table causing it to break in two. John put the violin down softly in Sherlock’s chair. He couldn’t damage one of Sherlock’s most prized possessions. He held the bow in his hands, the hair the only thing keeping the two ends of the worthless stick together.  John fell to the floor. His heart ached, his breath shallow as he tried to breathe through the small hole throat, which had closed up as he tried to fight his tears. _How could I be so careless?  How could I let something so important break? Sherlock will be so-_ But Sherlock wouldn’t care. Sherlock was dead. John could set this damned violin on fire and throw it out the window, and Sherlock wouldn’t say anything. That was the thought that that kept running through John’s mind. _Sherlock will never say anything… again. No snide comment about people’s intelligence. He’ll never say something was “obvious” or “boring.” He’ll never say “John” again._ The last word he would ever hear from his best friend’s lips… his name. He had heard it hundreds of times, yet he had taken them all for granted. He gave loud dry sobs, his body refusing to produce tears as he clutched the broken bow to him.

He didn’t eat for days, except for an occasional left over biscuit or bread with jam, and only slept on the couch or in Sherlock’s room on the floor. After three days, Mrs. Hudson tried opening the door. She called out, pleading with him to let her in as the hours passed. She tempted him with food, tea, and company, but John wouldn’t say a word. She would stay at the door to the flat until she became too distraught and began to cry. John sat in his chair, measuring the time of day by how it hit Sherlock’s chair, still empty except for the violin propped up in the seat and a broken bow before it.

The next day she wasn’t alone as she tried to lure John from his depression. By now, he had taken to reading Sherlock’s books. He didn’t even notice her muffled speeches through the door, or the voice which joined her. Mycroft was the next one to come to the flat. He was mumbling something about breaking the door down if John didn’t come out. John simply ignored them. Mrs. Hudson could be heard discussing John with him and a tearful Molly, both women crying and Mrs. Hudson claiming that she didn’t want to intrude, but that she was worried about him, afraid he was also dead.

A few days later, John was sitting in Sherlock’s room, wrapped in his sheets, lost in thought in the corner of his room. He could see Sherlock trying to get up after being drugged by Irene, the memory so clean and vivid it played like a movie before him. He loved remembering Sherlock like that, his limbs flying everywhere, his face unable to form his usual expressions, his eyes wild and unfocused. The mix of emotions between grief at his loss and joy at his memories churned his stomach. He felt himself starting to gag until he was doubled over, dry heaving. His limbs shook; he could hardly hold himself up. The doctor in him was screaming that he had to snap out of this. He had to eat, he had to stop thinking about Sherlock. But if he did, he would surely forget about him… he would forget the sound of Sherlock pacing in the night mumbling to himself about whatever case they were investigating. Or the sight of him coming out of the bathroom, his hair only a few inches from touching his shoulders, wavy and wet before it dried into those glorious curls. John’s arms couldn’t support him any longer. He closed his eyes as his body fell to the floor, shaking. He opened his eyes for a moment and saw Sherlock. His face just in front of his, a hand came and cupped his cheek. The look of concern in Sherlock's eyes was enough to make John forget to breath.

“Oh John… what are you doing?”

“I... I’m dying.”

“Dying?" Sherlock tried to give a little smile. "Don’t be so dramatic. Why would you do something stupid like that?”

“I miss you, Sherlock.” John felt tears blur his vision. He blinked them away, he didn't want anything imparing his view of Sherlock.

“John-“

“Do you even miss me?”

“Oh John…" he felt a finger brush agains his cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen from his eyes. "I will always miss you. But now’s not the time for us to see each other again. You’ll have to wait. Just hold on John, for me.”

“Why? Why did you die?” John asked, his voice breaking.

“You’ll know. Someday, you’ll know and you’ll understand. But for now, just hold on. Hold on, John,” Sherlock whispered.

Suddenly, the door to Sherlock's room was thrown opened. “Sherlock” John whispered.

One good look at the men in the door way and it was confirmed that this wasn’t Sherlock. Lestrade and Mycroft came into the room. They saw John, curled in the corner, and went to him. Mycroft began lecturing about how childish John was behaving, until he got a good look at him. Lestrade just stood there staring at John. He must have looked terrible because the look on Lestrade’s face was one of disbelief and pity. Even Mycroft was suddenly at a loss for words. Mrs. Hudson came through the door next, complaining about the state of the flat. Lestrade tried to usher her out of the room without letting her see John. But she was a woman on a mission. When she saw John she rushed to him with her motherly concern. She was crying softly, trying to comfort John hugging him tightly and describing all the things she would make for him. John couldn’t even cry. He was numb, still feeling the faint touch of Sherlock’s hand against his cheek. Was this how Sherlock felt? Everyone around him emotional and he just sat above it, unable or unwilling to give into grief and hurt. Lestrade looked at Mycroft and they began talking quietly while Mrs. Hudson was patting John’s head which was now cradled in her lap. “I know you miss him. We all do. He wouldn’t want you to live this way. He’d want you to continue on. He’d want you to move on. It’s ok to grieve dear, but you must live your life too. It’s what he would have done.”

John heard none of it in his heart. Instead, he let the platitudes pass through him. He was so shut down that he was only vaguely aware that anyone else was in the room. Mycroft asked Mrs. Hudson to make some food and Lestrade stayed with John. Mycroft left the room after her. Lestrade, obviously never the one to sit with victims, sat down on Sherlock’s bed and faced John. “You’ve got to snap out of this. I’m serious John. You’ve got to find a job or a hobby. I can’t hire you, not after what happened with… and you can’t afford to stay here without one. Mycroft says he’ll be willing to help pay Sherlock’s half until you find another flat mate, but he won’t support you.” Lestrade continued to talk. Mrs. Hudson brought food she had prepared, and tried to feed him. She offered to come and clean and do some shopping as everything had gone bad. Lestrade talked about jobs that John could apply for or people who might be interested in a flat share. Mycroft eventually returned with Harry and a doctor in tow. Harry threw her arms around her brother and cried. The doctor put John on Sherlock’s bed and went to work, trying to prolong John’s life, even though he wanted nothing more than to die. He wanted to join Sherlock, who knew what trouble that man was getting into without John there to help. Molly showed up a few minutes later, her eyes red from crying. John never said a word, trying to remember Sherlock’s face, only inches from his own as he had breathed John’s name.

John didn’t look for a job. He didn’t look for a flat mate. He barely left the flat at all, but was becoming increasingly annoyed at the sheer amount of people. Molly, Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Mycroft came to visit almost every day once they had removed the doors to the flat. John finally was ready to leave, if only to get away from the people watching him, waiting for him to fly into the deep end again. He decided he wanted to go somewhere he hadn’t been with Sherlock. He stumbled into a pub one bright afternoon, and began to drink until he was spectacularly drunk. After a few days of this he was kicked out after accosting another patron who had made the mistake of mentioning Sherlock’s name. John wandered down the road to an underground casino he had heard Sherlock mention once regarding a case. He found he liked gambling, it gave him something to do while he drank. He continued like this for several months. His regular visits from Mycroft became nothing more than an opportunity for him to complain about John’s unemployment and threatened to cut John off. John waited, calling his bluff. His bank account dwindled to nothing as John continued to gamble, hoping that he could earn enough money to pay his half of the rent that month.

That was when he met Erik.

A few thousand dollars to get his luck up, that was how it started. By the end of their run months later, John owed him £58,000. John went back to the flat after Erik threatened to come after him if John didn’t start paying him back. He spotted Mycroft’s car as he walked back to Baker Street. He didn’t even wait for John to clear the stairs before he started in. “I see you’ve been doing something productive.” He said with a sneer. “Something tells me you won’t be paying this month’s rent on your own again.” Mycroft said from Sherlock’s chair.

“Did you figure that out, or did you have your cameras follow me?” John spat back as he entered the flat.

“I don’t need cameras anymore, Dr. Watson. You are only too predictable now.” John just stared at him as Mycroft stood up and crossed to him. “It’s been a year, John. I told you, I won’t support you forever. I warned you to get your act together or I was kicking you out. I won’t have a deadbeat staying here.” John heard people in the kitchen, but couldn’t bother to turn around.

“I’m sure your brother would love to see how you’ve treated his only friend.”

“He isn’t here to see.”

“Probably for the best. He’d be even more ashamed of you than he was before he died.” John didn’t even register what was happening before he felt the pain against his cheek and turned his head back to face Mycroft.

“You will not talk about my brother in that manner.” Mycroft was rubbing the hand he had used to slap John. Cold as ever. “I doubt that I would be the one he was disappointed in anyway. Even he would suggest that you cleaned up or left. So… what will you do? I know which I would suggest.” Mycroft’s eyes were narrow, as though he were defying John to leave.

“FINE!” John snapped. Mycroft looked stunned. “I’m gone. You can have this place back. I’m done! I must be the only person who cared about Sherlock enough to actually mourn his passing, because all you’ve managed to do is sit around and ignore the fact that your brother killed himself because of your neglect!” John heard a gasp behind him and turned to see who all was in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson’s mouth was covered by her hands. Lestrade put his arms around her and hugged her as she broke into a sob. Harry put a hand on Molly’s shoulder as they both began to tear up. John was so angry at them. “Look at you all. You sit there and put on a sad face and live your lives as though none of you helped push him off the roof that day. I don’t care what any of you have to say, you might as well have helped him jump. I hope you are fine living with that guilt, because I can’t anymore.”

John grabbed his coat and took off without saying another word. Erik had found him a few days later, living on the street. John, having no way to pay off his debt was recruited as an enforcer. John moved in, but hated living with all these men in such a horrid space. It wasn’t until after John tried to run away that Erik moved John from an enforcer to… basically their slave. John was humiliated, but wasn’t aware that he still hadn’t hit bottom.

He hadn’t been demoted more than a month when the men, coming back from their once monthly pub crawl (a little treat from Erik) and found John on the floor asleep on a pile of blankets they had given him for a bed. John woke up to find six men around him. John tried to sit up, but was pushed back down by one of the enforcers. His head hit the concrete hard and he felt his mind grow fuzzy from the pain. One man forced John’s mouth open as he inserted his hard cock until he was gagging. John felt like he was suffocating, the man’s balls slapped him in the chin as he began to hump John’s mouth. He tried screaming out for help, but his voice was drowned out by the long thin cock jamming itself down his throat. He tried kicking, but only managed to help some of the other men pull down his trousers and pants until he was completely exposed. He bucked his hips, trying to get away, when he felt someone pressing the tip of a lubed up knob at his entrance. He tried shouting again, which only earned a slap from the man riding his face. The other men held down John’s hips as the person at his entrance pushed forward with one swift and hard thrust. John screamed out in pain, feeling himself tearing from the size of the cock now inside him. Tears were running down his face and blood was trickling out of his ass. He was being raped. How had this happened? John tried to fight, but eventually gave up as his body was used over and over again by these men. That’s when Erik started chaining him to the floor, ensuring that his legs were closed to prevent anyone from taking advantage. Unfortunately, there was the matter of his mouth. Erik refused to gag John, and because of that on more than one occasion John woke up to someone stuffing their cock down his throat. Those noises were always, conveniently, unheard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the damaged doctor's life.

The cold water continued to run over John’s hands, soothing the heated flesh. He closed his eyes trying to force himself to think about anything other than the pain. “Here you go,” someone dropped a stack of dishes into his open hands. John bit his lip, trying to force himself from crying out, the men laughing behind him. He set the dishes down, trying not to break them and stepped back from the sink. His hands shook from the pain, but the men were getting ready to leave. He walked to the living area to try to get a view of the outdoors. There were no windows, and when the men left it was the only time he got the chance to look outside. He had grown fond of the little view, even if it was just a warehouse across the way. But seeing the sun touching objects outside of the little flat was enough to remind John that there was still life going on outside. It reminded him, that somewhere out there people were happy, laughing, living a better life than his. Erik went to the door and unlocked it to let the men out for the day. John could just see over their heads at the sun shining off the metal of the sign for the abandoned warehouse. He sighed as he leaned to the left, feeling the reflective light and heat of the sun touch his face.

It wasn’t until the light was gone, the door closed, and the locks clicked and John was alone, that he felt himself breathing deeply, trying to manage the pain in his hands. He went about his normal routine, check the chain to see if it was really attached to the floor and secured around his ankle. It was. He walked to the door to see if it was locked. It was. Erik was no fool, but John hoped one day he would forget to lock the door from the outside. Erik, paranoid after so many of his men had left early on in his career, had installed a secondary lock on the door. And unlike normal locks, it was intended to keep the men in the house locked in and prevent them from running away. John walked back to the kitchen and continued to attempt to relive the burning on his hand. He took off his socks and grabbed handfuls of ice that had built up on the sides of the freezer. He placed the socks on his hands to keep the ice pressed to the palms of his hands and sat down on the floor.

John stretched his neck up. Enjoying the chance to look ahead and up. He found it unusual how much he missed looking up at people. He always envied Sherlock getting to look down to most people, while John had to spend his whole life looking up. Now, he would give anything to have the chance to just look someone in the eye. Just look straight ahead. If he ever got brave enough to do so, he always made sure that his eyes were shut. It didn’t take long for him to realize there was a big difference between being an employee of Erik’s and being his slave. Despite the pretense that money changed hands, John wasn’t stupid enough to imagine there was any chance that he could ever earn anything, let alone pay off his debt. He wasn’t treated as an equal. He couldn’t look them in the eyes, couldn’t talk unless asked a direct question. He wasn’t allowed to eat with the men or even use the bathroom when they were in the house. He simply existed because he was convenient to the other members of the household. Even when Sherlock died and his handlers began taking suicide watch, John still felt as though he existed simply as a reason for them to gather.

Sherlock. How could a name bring on such strong emotions, even two years after his death? John tried not to think about him again, but sometimes an overwhelming pain forced him to be pulled from his mindless days. John felt the guilt rising up and choking him. The tears started falling from his eyes as he relived those last moments again and again. The tears helped relieve the pain, not only in his body, but in his soul as well.

Why? The question he asked himself a thousand times. Why? Why did he _really_ jump? He wasn’t a fraud, John knew he wasn’t and a select few of people still believed in Sherlock Holmes. So why would he jump? And probably the most pressing question John had; the one that kept him in his grief, the one that kept him from finding any peace… why couldn’t Sherlock come to him? Throughout their friendship, John had gone to Sherlock about problems. Sherlock was his friend, even if he wasn’t always the best person to give opinions. He talked to Sherlock about everything, from insignificant things to life changing matters. But Sherlock never let his guard down enough to ask for John’s help in the time he needed it the most. John knew he may not have been able to help clear Sherlock’s name, or figure out Moriarty’s plan behind destroying Sherlock. But John could have sat with him and, normally would say he’d be able to talk it out, but knowing Sherlock he would just sit there thinking and watch his mind make connections that John never could. John may not have been able to ever figure out how to help Sherlock, but John could have been there. Even just to say “I still believe in you” even if no one else did.

What did he do instead? He fell for a trick. Yes, he knew he had been tricked. Moriarty’s trick, he was sure of it. John wasn’t stupid. He knew that to some degree, Moriarty had something to do with it. But the damage had already been done. There was nothing he could do to fix it. Nothing he could do to help. He was alone, in his sad life that he hated more than anything. Not just because of where he was, or what he was forced to do. And, if he was honest, not really because he had lost his best friend because John had always assumed they wouldn’t live to an old age. The pain of any of it would be enough to destroy a man. But it was the fact that in those last moments of his life, when Sherlock really and truly needed him, John had let him down. And it was those thoughts that John always kept with him. Not that Sherlock Holmes was gone. Not that he was alone. But that he had let down his friend. He hadn’t been there. He couldn’t do anything. And for the first year, that guilt kept him locked in his depression. And now, two years later it was a different type of guilt, one that gave him fire to go on. He was so cut off from the world… did anyone still remember Sherlock besides those John dismissed in his grief? Perhaps even they had moved on… even they believed in the lie. And what was John doing to help Sherlock? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He had thrown away everything, every hope of every potential life. And John truly, truly felt hopeless in those moments. The moments where he could be alone with his grief… just as he had wanted back at Baker Street.

John couldn’t let himself go further down that path, he tried sitting up. The ice on his hand had melted. His socks were absolutely soaked. He would need to launder them along with the men’s clothes. He went to the small loo they all shared. 8 men, sharing 1 bathroom was a nightmare. There was a shower in the corner, a toilet and a sink with a medicine cabinet above and a small old shelving unit to the right of the sink. The toilet was often the site of ‘how bad can I miss’ contests. John was never at a loss for work with these men. The shower was surrounded by glass and big enough to fit one person, almost comfortably. Showering was almost impossible. The chain was too short for him to get completely under the spray of the water, but still with the help of his hands and a cup he would borrow from the kitchen, he could catch the water and pour it over the rest of his body. He took a brief, cold shower (not wanting to risk his hands getting too hot), got out, and change changed into his other clothes. He was only given 2 sets of outfits which consisted of track pants, old shirts, pants full of holes and stains, and socks. Everything was secondhand from the other men. Because of this, he was fastidious about doing laundry and bathing daily. With 8 men in the small flat it was only natural that it would begin to smell horridly, probably not as bad as it could smell at home with all of Sherlock’s experiments and body parts scattered about. No, at Baker Street, his old flat, this was where he lived now.

John looked in the mirror, cracked in the bottom left corner from where one of the other men had lost his temper and punched the mirror. John found himself staring into his own eyes for a few seconds before having to look away. He hated that these men had managed to rob him of his ability to look himself in the eyes. The experience was so intense, every thought and emotion clearly on display for the world to read at its leisure. They were sunken, his face thin and rough. He remembered seeing himself in his dream, unfortunately, still looking the same in this mirror as in his dream’s reflection. John opened the medicine cabinet gently and tried to cover his palms with salve and bandage them enough so he could continue his work. He left his fingers exposed, as they hadn’t received much in the way of burns. He could see the blisters forming, and just touching them to wrap was so painful his vision went black several times and he had to sit on the toilet to finish. John put everything away, and pulled out a bottle of pain reliever to help him get through his chores then proceeded to dress for the day.

John went into the small L-shaped kitchen in the corner of the flat to start a load of laundry. John made a cup of tea pulling an old discarded bag from one of the cups in the sink and prepared breakfast for himself. He hoped Erik would get some food. He wasn’t stupid; he knew they had run out of food. But Erik couldn’t look like he was unable to provide for his men without causing a coup.

John took an over ripe tomato which had been discarded last night, cut it up slowly, and placed it on the last piece of bread. He stared at the knife, wishing he was brave enough to slice it across of his wrists. He touched the cool blade against his fevered skin, his pulse suddenly quickening causing his hands to throb. He started to press the tip into the thin, delicate skin of his wrist. One thing stopped him. Harry. They knew about his sister. If he committed suicide or died or left before he had paid off his debt, they would go after her. Every time John felt the need to leave, he imagined her living his life. She was strong, yes, but these men would brutalize her. It was bad enough for him, but if a woman was living this life, he knew that there was no way she would survive. The men would be unable to control themselves and kill her just trying to get to her. John had failed his sister in so many other ways in the year between Sherlock’s death and his life here, that he couldn’t force her to take his place as well. John had been trained on how to survive a hostage situation. He knew how to appease his captors enough to help him survive. He couldn’t see Harry doing the same. Knowing his sister, she would fight these men to her death. John set the knife down and began to eat.

He looked around at what he needed to do that day. His usual things were obvious to him, sweep, make beds, clean kitchen, finish laundry, cook dinner, and clean the bathroom. John was always a little disappointed in the condition of the flat. He knew it was clean, but years of decay and neglect had done irreparable damage to the overall unsoiled feel of the flat and no amount of cleaning would fix that. He finished his breakfast, and began on his work for the day. He moved slowly as he worked from the pain. He often found himself hurting, or injured so he had learned to do his work without injuring himself further. What he wouldn’t give to have Mrs. Hudson to help him, or Sherlock to just be in the same flat to keep him company. He didn’t realize how much he missed having someone else around, even if it was someone like Sherlock who wouldn’t talk. Just knowing there was someone nearby who was a friend would be enough to comfort him.

He wandered into the main part of the flat once he was done in the kitchen. There was one bed in the whole flat and it belongs to Erik. It could easily fit two men, but because Erik is the leader, he doesn’t share his bed with anyone. There are three couches for Stephen, Rhys, and David, while Liam, Nicholas, and Marcus slept on 3 mattresses on the floor where. The floor was concrete where carpet had been pulled up previously and never replaced. The rings for the chains had been bolted to the floor. John’s spot only had only one small blanket that would occasionally be thrown over him, more to muffle the sounds of him shivering than actually fight against the cold. It couldn’t protect him from the nightmares he had about Sherlock’s death. John managed to compose himself before allowing his mind to follow Sherlock again. Taking a deep breath, he continued on with his day… as he always did because he had work to finish.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, he fed the men what he had managed to create with his injured hands and the food Erik had purchased for them. They ate and John managed to keep himself calm as he put the groceries Erik had purchased into the cupboards. Once the men had eaten their fill and John had washed their dishes, Erik pulled the chain still attached to John’s leg, their way of summoning him. John stumbled into the living room, knowing what was coming. Stephen was standing in the middle of the room, where John slept. He kept his head down, feeling everyone’s eyes following him.

“Alright Stephen,” Erik announced, “You’ll go first.”

Stephen’s hands were unbuttoning his trousers before Erik had finished talking. John was forced to his knees by Erik, who often stood nearby to make sure they didn’t get too out of hand. Stephen was hard before he let his cock out. John felt himself naturally draw back, but Erik’s hand was waiting. “You know, you shouldn’t be shy and modest anymore. It’s not like you haven’t done this a thousand times before,” Erik hissed in John’s ear. Erik grabbed John’s wrists and handcuffed them behind his back. John felt his face flush as he recalled all the things that had been done to him in this room. He was right. John had let these men do a lot to him, but it didn’t mean John had to like it, or want it. Stephen trailed a finger against John’s jawline until it reached his chin. He closed his eyes and he felt his chin tipped up. He fought against the urge to look, but knew it would be worse if he did.

“Come on, slut. You know what I like.” Stephen’s cock was waiting at John’s lips. John, keeping his lips pressed tight, opened his mouth. Stephen slowly pushed his cock into John’s mouth, past his tight lips. He groaned and John squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about what he was doing. He knew what Stephen liked, a little teeth and a lot of tongue. John kept his lips tight as Stephen began to fuck his mouth. Erik let go of John’s head as he started bobbing in time with Stephen’s thrusts. Stephen wasn’t thick, but he was long which caused John to gag as he thrust deeper down John’s throat. Pretty soon John’s lips couldn’t stay tight any longer. His spit was dripping out of his mouth and down his chin as he did everything he knew of to push Stephen to the edge so he could finish. John just wanted to get this humiliating part of his day to end. Stephen started groaning and threw his head back as he grabbed John’s head and pressed his face into the nest of black hair at the base of his cock, and came, unloading everything he had down John’s throat. John kept his eyes closed as Stephen slowly pulled out of his mouth.

John lowered his head, and stared at Stephen’s feet, expecting to see him retreat. John caught his breath, knowing what would be coming next. Normally, whoever had John’s mouth would then leave and join the others, who watched the whole event. Stephen didn’t move. John could hear Liam coming up behind him. John felt his hands fall to his side as Erik un-cuffed him.

“Bend over, slut” Liam shouted when John made no movement. John, knowing what he needed to do to prevent any further injury, leaned forward and put the back of his hands on the ground. Stephen still had yet to move away from John. What is he doing? John knew how rough Liam was. It would take everything within John not to go flying forward. Liam must have ignored Stephen still standing there, because John could then feel his track pants being pulled down to expose his ass. John knew he was getting his cock ready to enter John’s ass. John steadied himself and tried to force down all emotion from rising up and choking him. Liam would enter John, too fast for John, but too slow for him. Erik always encouraged the men to take it easy at first, but John knew that this never worked. Liam would still do what he wanted, despite Erik or John’s protests. John ensured his hands were far enough ahead of him to balance out the inevitably violent first thrust. John was grasped by his hips and felt the head of Liam’s cock at his entrance. John wasn’t prepared for the first thrust. He never was. John screamed out in agony as Liam’s thick cock entered him. John tried to relax as he felt himself being stretched and torn. A sob came out of John as Liam pulled out and thrust in deeper. Liam started picking up speed and John tried to keep his weight off of his hands, but he felt the back of his hands scraping against the concrete. He was vaguely aware of people shouting and the absence of shoes that had been in front of him previously. His own cock, despite his own urge to suppress it, was growing hard. John let out a moan as Liam hit his prostate. He knew he had to stop his erection before it was seen. Liam gave a great thrust which pushed John forward. Without thinking John used his hands to catch himself. John screamed in agony as he clenched every muscle in his body and dropped down to balance himself on his arms instead.

Suddenly, Liam was gone. John shook from the pain that radiated throughout his entire body, confused why he had stopped. He could hear the commotion around him, but knew better than to look.

“Stephen, what the fuck are you doing?” Liam shouted. There was a loud commotion and something landed next to John. Against his better judgment he looked to see Stephen, his face bloody. Liam was on top of Stephan, punching him. John looked away as the other men ran to pull Liam off. Erik was lax about certain things, but fighting was something which he wouldn’t abide. Stephen looked at John and smiled. He quickly looked away as Stephen was picked up off the floor. The others were still holding back a struggling Liam. No one remembered the person on the floor, ass still bared and too confused to move. John was kicked and stepped on as the men tried to break up the fight.

The last thing John saw before he blacked out from an excruciating kick to the head was Stephen with Erik’s keys, running to the door, for either freedom or certain death.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet a familiar stranger.

There are some, who can be the most extraordinary person in a room, but remain invisible until it serves their purposes.  If one looked around a crowded illegal casino they might see a tall, thin man with dark hair. He would carry himself with an air of self-importance and have an impressive fashion sense. Yet he would be nothing more than a below average man trying to prove he is better than the world, no different from the hundreds of others passing him every day. Or perhaps someone walking in from the street, coat billowing, his quick and sure steps signaling he was on his way to take charge. But he would prove to disappoint as well, for he would simply left a job interview for which he is only slightly under qualified, only to be passed up by someone well connected albeit less competent.  What about a rugged looking man getting drunk on cheap booze in a smoky room, his blonde hair hanging in his eyes trying to hide a poor poker face? A man who lost his job because of his gambling, with a greatly diminished stack of chips in front of him as it had been for months prior, with no one except a dealer and a man in the shadows watching him. Who then, in a flip of the river, would have lost half of his remaining stack of chips and slam his fist on the counter as the dealer collected his chips. None of these people are particularly important; they are simply ordinary people with the potential to be someone exceptional. With the exception for the man who was already brilliant.

The dealer at the table made eye contact with Erik’s man who had been working the man before him. David nodded a greeting to the dealer as he approached before turning his attention to his mark.  “Not doing so hot today, are you Anders?” The man said nothing as he picked up his next hand of cards. David took his right index finger and gently moved some of the small stack of chips to count how much the man had left. He sighed as he leaned in and whispered “You know I can’t lend you anymore.”

The man, still not looking away from the cards, muttered the same thing David had heard countless others say before, “My luck is about to change” as pushed his small stack of chips into the center of the table. “All in.”

David genuinely liked this guy. But he knew Anders’ tell and could see him tracing a small crescent scar just under his right ear along his jawline. This would be his last hand. He sat quietly and watched as he bluffed his way through his hand. Sure enough, he lost with a pair of deuces. The remaining chips were taken. The man slumped down and put his face in his hands. David urged the man to stand up and walked him to a small, unused table, and ordered him a drink. “Wait here, I think I know someone who might be able to help you.”

The man simply nodded and held the drink in his hands, his blonde hair covering his face and probably some tears. David pitied the man; he knew what kind of life he was leading Anders into.  But he also knew that with Stephen’s escape last night, they needed some new blood to keep the rest from leaving as well. David went to the phone and called for Erik.

He didn’t see the man smile, and wipe away the fake tears he had cried. He didn’t see how closely the man was observing him. If he had, he never would have made that call. But being unnoticed, even when he was alone, was what Sherlock Holmes did best.

Sherlock wasn’t down on his luck. He had enough of Mycroft’s money stashed away, that he was set for life. If anything, his luck was changing. He had been working towards this moment. It had taken him longer than he cared for to find John’s new associates, and the fact that he found them, yet still never found John caused great concern. This man seemed nice enough, but Sherlock knew he had several thousand pounds worth of credit he could have asked for, so why was this man was cutting him off so early? Sherlock’s concern increased. He recalled that Mycroft had enacted some part of his own plan the day prior, perhaps it was falling in line with his own. He couldn’t shake the feeling as though they were trying to hurry someone in, Sherlock was just glad it was him. He was afraid he would have to wait for months before he could infiltrate their company. Fortunately, he had a fake identity created to smooth along any questions about who he was.

At least Mycroft had been able to handle that. Sherlock felt anger rise up every time he thought about how his brother had, not only lost John but had basically driven him away and lied to Sherlock for 2 years. Anytime Sherlock asked about John, Mycroft merely answered that John was well and adjusting to life without Sherlock just fine. It wasn’t until Sherlock returned that he learned the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft hadn’t been waiting at the train station, instead one of his people had quickly ushered Sherlock into a waiting car. The ride took him through his beloved London streets, as memories flooded him of the last time he had been in the city. Fortunately, they did not pass anything that reminded him too much of John. He remembered driving past this corner or making sure John ate at that café. Fortunately, the ride passed in a blur of strange emotions and familiar sights. Sherlock had expected them to pull into a neutral location, instead he found himself stepping onto Mycroft’s drive. Mycroft was always terribly secret about his private life, even with Sherlock, and that he should end up at Mycroft’s own front door astonished the little brother. Sherlock was escorted through the halls until he reached an ornate parlor which seemed to suit Mycroft. He took a seat and waited calmly for his brother to join him. It looked like the type of estate Mycroft had always wanted; decorated as though a 16th century castle had met a modern day decorator. It was a quite minimalist in the amount of décor which adorned the room, but every piece of art and furniture was lavish and overstated. A huge mahogany desk, wing backed chairs, a fireplace, books scattered around in strategic locations, and suites of armor. It belonged to someone who would be expected to meet with dignitaries and business men. It was not suited for a meeting with a brother he hadn’t seen in 2 years.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice came from behind him. It wasn’t a friendly greeting like one would expect, merely an observation, an acknowledgement that Sherlock was indeed in the room. “I trust you had a pleasant train ride. How was first class?” Mycroft gestured for Sherlock to sit before taking a chair opposite him. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to read Mycroft’s past 2 years on his face. Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but Mycroft was hiding something. He looked strained and older from every worry he had been carried since Sherlock had last seen him. He was thinner, as was his hair.

“Congratulations are in order for reaching your goal weight.” Mycroft gave a snide smile at Sherlock’s remark. “Although, I think you’ve quite over done it dear brother.”

“I’ve merely been busy. It helps finding distractions when trying to give up a bad habit. Isn’t that what you found?”

Sherlock preferred to think that he was commenting on Sherlock’s drug habit instead of his friends. “It would depend on the distraction. Perhaps, after 2 years of them, it’s time to return to a normal life.”

Mycroft put a finger against his lips. “Have you considered the consequences of returning?” Mycroft was hiding something; the placing of a finger in front of the lips was a subtle sign that he was guarding the words which came from his mouth. “Would it not be better for everyone if you began a new life? A quieter life?” Mycroft looked into the fire.

“Forgive me, but I have been away, risking my life to bring down Moriarty’s network. I think any life I have will be immeasurably quieter.”

“Surely you will be interested in a simple life now. I have set aside quite a bit of money as payment for your… services. You no longer need to play detective. I can continue your current identity on a permanent basis. Or, if you’d like, I may pull some strings and get you a job at MI-6.”

Sherlock leaned forward, and hissed. “Where is John?” Mycroft seemed unfazed. “Tell me Mycroft. I am at the end of my patience. I will not be lied to any longer. Your short answers, always the same, your reluctance to look me in the face. Signs even an idiot could see plain as day.”

“I would have thought you’d have other people on your mind as well. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly-“

“WHERE IS HE, MYCROFT?!”

Something Mycroft saw in Sherlock’s eyes caused him to lose his nerve. Mycroft lowered his head. “I’m sorry brother.” Sherlock felt himself panic. “I knew if I told you, you would refuse to finish the job. You needed to rid the world of Moriarty’s network. But you are so blind where Doctor Watson is concerned, I knew you would return, even if there was nothing that could be done.”

Sherlock stood; a small part of him expected this to happen. He walked towards the door, not looking back to his brother. “I’d like to see it.” Sherlock tried to control his voice. “I’d like to see his grave.”

“Sherlock, there is no grave.” Mycroft stood to join his brother, who had stopped in the doorway. _Ashes_. John was poetic enough where he would want his body burned and scattered somewhere. He gave a little smile as he thought of them getting scattered at their flat, and Mrs. Hudson accidentally vacuuming them. “Sherlock, we believe he’s still alive, somewhere.”

Sherlock turned to face his brother. “What do you mean?” His eyes still shone with tears he had quickly stopped. “If he’s not dead, what happened to him?”

“You don’t understand, Sherlock.” Mycroft said from his seat. Sherlock stayed by the door, “You can leave or stay, but I will not shout at you from across the room.” Sherlock walked to the desk that sat near the chairs and leaned against it. Mycroft sighed as he continued. “John fell apart. He seemed to do ok, until he visited your grave. He returned to the flat and fortified it shut. We couldn’t get him to open the door to us. We finally had to break the door in, even then we found him in your room. We could tell he hadn’t eaten, or slept. I got Harry and Molly, but no one could bring him out.” Sherlock turned away again as he inspected the books on Mycroft’s desk, he assumed John would eventually return to a normal life. “I don’t think you understand the guilt John felt. The only things we heard him mutter for months was ‘I could have helped’ as he wandered around the flat. Molly, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson watched him around the clock. He never went to his room. He would sit in the living room then move to your bedroom. We couldn’t get him to eat more than a few bites every day.” Sherlock recalled how diligent he had to be about making sure that John ate. Hadn’t he told Mycroft this? “One day he finally left the flat. He was gone for hours, and no one had any idea where he went to. I began to monitor him. He went to pubs, he took up gambling. I tried to become forceful, to stop his destructive behavior. I gave him an ultimatum. He had to find a job by the one year anniversary of your death. I thought pushing him towards some kind of purpose would help.”

“But it backfired.” Mycroft didn’t speak. “You know John. He’s a proud man, how could you think this was the way to handle him?”

“We were desperate. Besides, if you recall, he was not my priority. I was to take care of your cases, your flat, and your possessions and by extension Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I was not to take care of him. So before you start accusing me of chasing him off, perhaps you should put the blame on his assigned handler. And before you ask, we have been looking for him. He seems to have eluded us. We thought we had footage of him getting on a train bound for the north. However, we never were able to find him. Months of searching provided no answers. We concluded that he must have remained in the city. No one from his old haunts had seen him beyond 6 weeks after he left the flat. I have still been searching, but have yet to find him. He knows where the CCTV cameras are, and, like you, has learned to avoid them.”

Sherlock walked towards the door, “I hope everything else I left behind hasn’t been treated the same way.”

He didn’t see the way his words had affected his brother, who was slumped in his chair as the door slammed shut, his head in his hands. He had let his brother down while he was gone, yet he had hoped he might fix it everything before Sherlock returned. Mycroft simply hadn’t been prepared for the feelings of loss he had towards his little brother while he was away. He felt easier now that he knew Sherlock was home, and could be kept safe under his watchful eye. Mycroft had made deals with the devil and prayed for Sherlock to return safely. Now, he had what he wanted, and his brother was furious. Mycroft stood with resolve, he would gather everything he had collected regarding John. He would help return him to Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly runs into an old friend.

Molly was exhausted. She had been working nonstop for the past year, one of the many perks of her promotion. But she was looking forward to her upcoming vacation. She checked her watch and saw it was time for her lunch break. She took her food and went to her secret space. She had discovered it shortly after she started working at St. Bart’s. It was a small abandoned classroom, perfect for when Molly wanted to be alone. She used to go there when she was upset, it was a perfect place to cry in peace. Now, however, it was a perfect way to temporarily go off the grid when she needed a break from work. She walked down the hall when she got an odd feeling. Someone was watching her. She looked around, but no one was behind her. Molly kept walking, going faster. She turned into her classroom, quickly and stood by the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps to go past. After a moment, she stepped away from the door; perhaps she had been imagining things. She realized she was breathing heavily, and tried to calm herself down.

“You appear to be doing well, Molly.” She screamed as she turned to face the voice behind her in the dark. There was a man silhouetted in light from the windows, a tall man with dark curls….

“Sherlock!” She had recognized the voice almost immediately. Molly ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Welcome back!” Sherlock stood, stunned at this reaction. She stepped back. “I’m sorry. I’m just so glad to see you. I didn’t know you were coming back.”

“Mycroft knew of my plans.”

“Explains why I hadn’t heard.” Sherlock gave her a questioning look. “It doesn’t matter. You’re back! How long will you be here?”

“At this time I have no plans to leave,” he walked to a table and sat on it.

“Well… good. I’ve missed you Sherlock. It’ll be wonderful having you back. Just like old times.” She caught herself before she could say anymore. She wasn’t ready to discuss what he was here for. “So have you seen your brother? I’m sure he was happy to see you home.”

“How long has it been since you’d seen Mycroft?”

 “Your brother and I had a falling out of sorts regarding our duties.” Molly looked down realizing she had opened the door for Sherlock to ask what she wasn’t ready to answer. He simply nodded, silent. Molly got the feeling he was waiting for her to tell him about John. She looked into his questioning eyes and felt her eyes tear up. She shook her head as she bit her lip.

 “Where is he?” Molly shook her head. “… Molly?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered through her tears. “I’m sorry Sherlock. We tried. We really did. He just wouldn’t come out of it. I’m sure Mycroft told you what happened. I tried to handle him the best way I could, to give him space… let him grieve. We both wanted to help him. But Mycroft saw me giving him space as my inability to help and he took charge. We fought and fought. I doubt anything would have worked. The guilt… John’s guilt was too much.”

“Guilt?” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Why would he have guilt?” he asked Molly.

“Do _you_ feel any guilt for what’s happened to John since you left?” Sherlock didn’t answer. They stared at each other for a moment until Sherlock looked away. “Why?” Sherlock again said nothing, but she could read his silence… the look in his eyes before he had looked away… the fact that he had not maintained eye contact with her. “See, you’re not as different from us as you think.”

After a few moments of silence he looked back to her. “You’ve changed, Molly.” A confused look crossed her face; she hadn’t expected him to change the subject so quickly. “You’re wearing makeup, smeared from being applied early this morning, yet it accentuates your features as though you’ve done it before, daily I’d imagine.” His fingers quickly indicated each of his deductions. “Your jumper is hardly warn, only to fight the cold instead of an outfit. You’ve clearly put more money and thought into your attire. Your feet and ankles have swollen slightly from the amount of standing, but mostly because of the type of shoes you’ve chosen to cram onto your feet. Even an inch heel is putting unnecessary strain on your feet.  They’re attractive instead of comfortable. You’re lab coat; it’s been hemmed to fit you properly. Clearly you see St. Bart’s as a career instead of a job. Congratulations on your promotion.”

She smiled. “You know, you haven’t changed at all.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Molly was right. He was still who he always had been, before he met John. The changes had been subtle. Now, seeing him as he had been, she realized how much he truly had become a better person around John. He seemed cold again… angry. He needed John again. Sherlock turned to leave. “Mycroft was wrong.” She blurted out. Sherlock stopped. “I always tried to convince him that John would never leave London. London was where your heart was.” She saw him take a deep, even breath. She stepped towards him. “Even if he couldn’t afford it, John would still want to stay here… to be close to what was left of you.” She reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but drew it back. “I went to the casinos he used to frequent. I thought I saw him, once. About six weeks after he disappeared. I tried to follow him, but he disappeared. That night, I could have sworn I was being followed. I think it was him.” She paused and shook her head. “No, I know it was him. After that, Mycroft’s men descended on the place. Almost shut it down. After that we lost any potential leads.” She grew quiet. “Something horrible happened to him. I’m sure of it. Every body I see come in, I always expect it to be him. Harry and I have stayed in touch. She told me every now and then, she feels like someone is watching her. Not always, and not in a friendly way. At first, she thought it was John, but she feels threatened by it instead of comforted. It’s almost as though they are checking up on her. She’s not sure what they’re looking for, but it’s been going on for several months.” She came around to look at him, and saw his eyes had lost focus. “What are you thinking?” He stayed silent. Molly knew when he got like this he could stay like this for a while. She went to sit down and wait, and was rewarded after several minutes of silence.

“How’s Lestrade?” Sherlock asked as he turned to face her.

Molly’s eyes grew wide. “God… you haven’t heard. I thought Mycroft would have told you.”

“Apparently, he’s neglected to tell me a great many things.”

“Well, Lestrade isn’t in homicide anymore. All of the cases you assisted on were reviewed. Most of them were thrown out and the criminals are back on the street. He was almost fired. You’re brother worked a bit of magic and instead he was simply demoted and transferred to vice and robbery division.”

Sherlock slammed his hand on the nearest surface. “Mycroft was supposed to take care of this.”

“But with a last name of Holmes, no one would believe he wasn’t just trying to protect his little brother’s memory. Even he was investigated. Actually, he came out smelling like a rose, while still publically on your side. I’ll never understand how he did that.”

 Molly caught the look on Sherlock’s face. It was the same face he always had regarding his brother. She may have disagreed with Mycroft’s tactics in handling John, but she respected that he had only done what he believed to be the best course of action. Sherlock hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen John spiraling. He hadn’t felt those moments of panic as John made it very clear he was unwilling to continue to live. Something in her snapped as she flashed back to every time he had ever been an arse about things, back before she had the courage to ever say what was on her mind. He didn’t appreciate what she and Mycroft had done while he was gone. All of the frustration she had ever felt over this man came pouring out of her mouth.

“You know what? I can see in your face you don’t want to believe that your brother tried everything he could to keep his end of the bargain. I’m sure it’s not in the realm of possibility for you to think that there are some things that were even out of the hands of the great Mycroft Holmes. He’s not allowed to make a mistake is he, even though you set him up to fail? You gave us an impossible task, because no one else is ever allowed to be the hero, are they Sherlock?” He looked utterly shocked. It was one of those rare moments when his face truly reflected the man inside. If she wasn’t so bloody angry with him she would have laughed at being able to stun Sherlock Holmes. “But you never thought of who you left behind and how it would actually affect them.”

“I did it to save John’s life. Everyone’s—”

“John. Right…. But what kind of life did you leave him with? For the first year, he was nothing. He lived no life. It was empty. He had nothing but his grief to keep going, every day, just thinking about how he had let you down. And after he left… well, who knows what happened, because no one has seen, or heard from him. He’s just gone. And it’s your fault. You don’t realize it, but you store up friendships. I’m sure you wouldn’t call them that; most of them wouldn’t call it friendships either. But John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… even Mycroft and I called ourselves your friends, but you left us. The two of us just had to sit, and hope that you would one day be able to return to us alive.  But what about those who had no hope that you would return? The friends, the people you won’t admit are your friends… but are… they have never been the same. You know… Anderson and Donovan. When they found out about your death, I wasn’t sure how they would react. I watched, because I wanted to know. She’ll deny this, but I saw Sally cry. I have seen gruesome things with her, but have I never seen her cry. She knew it was a mistake. Anderson? He shut down. He comes to work, he does his job, and he leaves. He doesn’t go out with anyone, or participate in parties. See, even people, who would never call you their friend or admit that they even liked you, have been hurt by this choice that you made. You got it in your head that this was the only way out, but how long did you really think about it? I know you thought about it before hand, but you couldn’t know how everything would play out. But did you really look? Did you really try to see another way out? You’ve always taken risks with everyone’s life from day one. Now look. The people you tried to save, you’ve destroyed. So you can come in, pretend nothing’s changed. Pretend you’re here to save the day, and don’t get me wrong, everyone will be glad you’re back. But no one will forget what you’ve done to them. And it will take more than just the joy that you’re back to allow them to forgive. You have a lot to make up for, with everyone.”

 Sherlock didn’t move. He tried to prevent any emotion from crossing his face. She wasn’t right about everything, but it was what he always feared when he thought about returning. Now, he finds that this choice, which he had always seen as being noble and brave… to sacrifice himself for the people he lov- cared for, ended up doing them harm. Sherlock had looked for another way out. Perhaps he had become overly resigned to his fate, but it didn’t make the choice any easier. He whispered, more as a vow to himself than a statement to Molly, “I’m going to get him back. I will fix everything.” Molly nodded. She had seen Sherlock work miracles in the past, but she knew this could prove to be too much for him. “Thank you.” He muttered. Then he leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She felt her old crush return for a moment, as she tried to force down the blush she felt. Although she was no longer infatuated with Sherlock, she still did care deeply about him. And the small act of kindness was almost more than she had expected to receive in return for her words.

“What are you going to do?” She asked.

“You’ll need to take an extended lunch period. We need to get to work.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade get's a phone call from an old friend.

Lestrade sat at his desk filling out paperwork, wishing he could pass it off to someone; instead he was having people pass it off to him. Poetic justice, probably. He did try to consider himself lucky that he hadn’t been completely let go. The cases he worked without Sherlock had been good solid work. Even the ones he had involved Sherlock in would normally be considered air tight, but because he was still considered an unofficial and untrustworthy outside source who couldn’t be put on the stand, they had thrown out most of his cases. And some, like the incident with the kidnapping, still had him as the prime suspect. Instead of firing him completely, they moved him down the ladder and took him off homicide. He was now stuck bouncing between vice and robbery. Neither division wanted to claim him; no one really trusted that he could close his own cases. He had no division.

His mobile rang. Lestrade looked at the caller ID and considered sending it to voicemail, but it had been such a long time since he had heard from her, it must be important.

“Well, well Molly Hooper, what can I do for you?”

“Greg… Greg, I need to see you! Something’s come up on an old case.”

He shook his head, “You know that’s not my division anymore. They won’t let me near any of the old cases.”

Molly sounded desperate. “You don’t understand… it’s about Sherlock.”

Lestrade couldn’t breathe. “Molly, that’s a sealed case. Open and shut. You know I can’t go near it. I could get properly sacked.”

“Please Greg. I really need your help. You don’t have to say or do anything. Please, I just… I just need a friend.”

Lestrade thought for a moment. It would be nice to see her again, perhaps just to be around a familiar face from the old days. She was one of the few people who actually looked at him as the person he was, not the man everyone assumed he was. "Where can I meet you?”

“Thank you Greg! In the morgue. Please, hurry.” With that she hung up the phone. Lestrade grabbed his coat and ran for the door.

The closer he got, the more he regretted agreeing to go. He hadn’t been as shook up about Sherlock’s death as John had been, but he hadn’t been as cold as Mycroft. He didn’t even know why he was bothering to go. Molly surely wouldn’t have found anything else out about Sherlock’s case. He wasn’t even sure why she was still investigating it. He probably felt some measure of guilt over his part he played in Sherlock’s demise. If he hadn’t allowed Donovan and Anderson to continue to spread those lies about Sherlock, then he could have cut them off before they took it to the Chief. What was done was done. And Greg had moved on… or he thought he had. The fact that all Molly needed to do was say Sherlock’s name and he’d come running, was enough to concern him. That was when another thought hit him…. What if it wasn’t really about Sherlock himself, what if it was someone else… someone associated with Sherlock? Greg put his foot down and started to weave through traffic, desperate to get to St. Bart’s to see if his theory was true.

Lestrade walked into the morgue as he had almost daily in the past. He felt his old confidence returning. He could see Molly standing in a door way, she seemed fidgety. Something was definitely wrong. The last few times he had seen her she was so… grown up. She wasn’t a shy young woman anymore, now she was a mature and happy adult. But something had changed to turn her back to her old self. She caught his eyes and gave a soft smile as she joined him. “Thank you for coming. It really means a lot that you’re here.”

“Of course. Tell me what’s wrong, Molly. What’s going on? Is it… you know…” he almost couldn’t say what he had concluded in the car. He stopped. “Did you find John?” Molly’s eyes grew wide at the mention of John’s name, her mouth parted slightly as she took a quick intake of breath. “Oh God.”

“No,” Molly answered quickly. “No it’s not… I just… I didn’t think….” She took a deep breath.

“Molly. Why am I here?” Molly just muttered that he needed to follow her. She led him into the autopsy room. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.” Molly was silent. “I didn’t expect to ever be back, honestly.”

He took a moment to enjoy the sight of the room. Oddly, it had become as welcoming as coming home. He remembered all of the cases he had cracked in this room. Molly turned to face him, a mischievous smile played across her face. “I knew his name would bring you here.”

Lestrade felt confused and uneasy. He only then noticed, there was no body in the room. If he hadn’t been called about Sherlock or John, why was he here? “Well, you know me, ever the fool. Whenever I hear Sherlock Holmes I come running. Just like I always did.” He felt his confusion become anger.

“That’s what I had hoped,” said a deep voice from behind him. Lestrade saw Molly’s eyes shift slightly to focus on something behind him and an old, familiar smile play on her lips. Lestrade slowly shook his head, he didn’t want to look. For a moment, in his heart he wanted that voice to stay silent in his grave. But he had to know. He had to see for himself. He turned slowly to see Sherlock standing 5 feet behind him. He still had his long coat and blue scarf. He was still impeccably dressed. He was still pale and tall and thin. His hair was still as curly and unruly as it had always been. But this was not the Sherlock Holmes he had seen just hours before he jumped. For a moment he just stared at him. Soaking in that this man, this impossible man standing before him couldn’t possibly be who he appeared to be. “No don’t. Don’t do that. You know who I am. Don’t try to label me as a delusion. It’s me, Lestrade. I’m here. I’m back.”

Lestrade felt his hands clench into fists. A sudden rush of anger crashed over him. He used to wonder if this could happen. The great Sherlock Holmes would simply fool them all. He took two steps to Sherlock. He reached his hand out and touched the man’s coat, still thinking that this wasn’t truly him. Sherlock simply stood there. Lestrade whispered “Sherlock.” All he did was nod in reply. Lestrade smiled, then punched him.

Sherlock had seen it coming. He wasn’t going to try to duck or hide from it. Molly ran over to Lestrade and grabbed him by the arm. “Greg, what are you doing?” Lestrade pulled his arm out from her grasp and used both of his hands to hold the lapels of Sherlock’s coat as he pushed him against the closest wall.

“YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!" Lestrade said as he felt himself shaking. "You're death was the only reason I haven't been able to hate you. My entire life was ruined! Every case I ever worked was opened. Most of them were thrown out for insufficient evidence. Some of them, you’ve been charged with! You weren’t there to witness in the re-trials. I had to stand there and be ridiculed and mocked as my name was dragged through the mud. It’s taken me two years to pull my life back together. Even now, people don’t want me on their cases. They think the only reason I got as far as I did, was from the help I got from you. Do you know who has my job? Donovan!" He was breathing deeper, trying to calm himself. He was finally able to say everything he had built up. Everything he couldn't say without speaking ill of the dead. "I always thought if Sherlock was still alive, he would come back. He would stop these cases from getting thrown out. He would prove his innocence in everything and by default, clear my name too. Poor Sherlock had died. Poor Sherlock couldn’t help me. But now, I see you were alive, you just didn’t care enough. There are criminals, roaming the street because you… you… you had to prove you were clever again or something. I don’t know. But I wish you had died.”

Molly tried to pull Lestrade away from Sherlock. “Greg, you don’t understand.”

Lestrade turned and took a good look at her. He let out a loud scoff. “I see how it is. You told her, but not me.” The silence from Sherlock told him everything. Lestrade was so angry, the only words that came were of hate and hurt.

Molly implored, “You don’t understand why he did it.”

“No, I understand why. Sherlock Holmes, a fraud. Instead of owning up to it or fighting it, he took the easy way out and ran.”

Molly stepped between Sherlock and Lestrade. “He did it to save your life.”

Lestrade looked from Molly to Sherlock.  Then, it was if all the anger had melted for a moment and he could really look at him. This was not the man who stood before him on countless occasions spouting wildly true theories. There was no cockiness, or arrogance. But there was something else missing. Something he never wanted to see. Sherlock had no confidence. He started to see in Sherlock, everything before he had met John. Quiet, alone, sad, purposeless, angry, bitter. It was only then that Lestrade could truly see the toll the past 2 years had taken on him. He had gotten so accustomed to the Sherlock with John, whose eyes seemed to dance when they were near, whose wit seemed to shine, and who could actually be seen smiling. Instead it was replaced with a shell of a man, and yet he could see something in his eyes. Desperation. How long had it been since he had seen Sherlock hungry like this? Hungry for a purpose to keep going. He saw that Sherlock had let Lestrade take his anger out on him. Sherlock looked him in the eye and merely said, “I’m sorry.” Lestrade was taken aback. He had only ever heard him apologize, sincerely, to one other person and she was standing there with them. “I had entrusted Mycroft to prevent any such events from occurring. He ensured me that everything had been handled. Had I discovered what really took place in my absence, I would have returned.”

“Wait, Mycroft knew? Mycroft knew! How long?” Molly explained what had happened before the jump. How he had shown up to ask her for help on taking care of John. How Mycroft was to handle everything else and report to Sherlock. “But I could have helped you.”

“I couldn't warn tou. If I didn’t jump, Moriarty’s men would have shot you, Mrs. Hudson... John. I did what I did to give you life.”

“A disgraced life.”

“A disgraced life is better than no life at all. And perhaps, we can still mend it.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “Who else knows?”

“You’re the first person I’ve told who assumed me dead.”

“I assumed you’d tell John first.” Lestrade pursed his lips, but the words had already fallen out of his lips. Sherlock stiffened. “I’m sorry. Can I help you find him?”

Sherlock turned the corners of his mouth up. It looked as though it pained him, and Lestrade wondered when was the last time he had smiled? He had a feeling it was when he and John had gone racing, handcuffed, into the night to avoid arrest. He was sure it was the last time John had smiled as well. “Well, how can a disgraced ex-homicide, now vice and robbery Detective Constable help?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home.

 “Lestrade, call my brother. Have him meet us at 221B,” Sherlock demanded.

He looked around confused. “What?”

“I don’t have a phone, you have his number. Call him.”

“Why would I have his number?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you would have spoken with him over the past two years. Am I wrong?”

Lestrade sighed. “No, I have it. But why wouldn’t Molly?”

“She might, but as they are currently not on the best of terms, I thought he might answer the phone for you.” Lestrade snapped his mouth shut and stepped out of the room as he made his call.

“Sherlock, are you ok?” Molly asked. “You can wait until tomorrow. You’ve had a busy day.”

“I have waited two years to come home. I don’t want to be delayed by even a day.” Sherlock had a cold demeanor about him as he said this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Molly went out to join Lestrade after a few minutes. He was still on the phone whispering. She waited patiently for him to finish before approaching.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m… I’m still in shock I think. But looking back, I should have seen it coming. You and Mycroft… the two of you were just so… composed about the whole thing.” He shook his head. “I really should have known.”

“How could you have ever thought he would fake his death?”

“I don’t know.” He paused for a moment. “I just hated him for so long, Molly. I’ve been so angry and bitter about everything.”

“Once he gets John back, you know he’s going to make it right. Plus, I thought you were doing better with everything. Not at work, but… you know… in your personal life.”

“It’s been fine. Same as always. How about you?”

“It’s good.”

They were silent for a moment, unsure what to say to one another. “We should probably go back inside,” he said as he broke the silence. “Mycroft will be there in about 30 minutes. He’ll take Mrs. Hudson upstairs so we can talk to her before Sherlock comes in. Kind of prepare her and… you know.”

“Yeah.” Molly took his arm and looped her own through it. “It’s kind of nice being back together again. We just… fit.” She said as she smiled at him.

“Yeah…. It’s not the exact same.”

“Well, it never will be. Something will always change as we live our lives, but it doesn’t have to be how we feel about each other. We’ve been through something that bonded us in ways we’re still exploring. We still care about each other, and the fact that Sherlock has returned won’t change that.” Molly hoped Greg understood what she was trying to say.

He smiled and gave her arm a little squeeze as they joined Sherlock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock waited outside in the car while Mrs. Hudson was ushered her from her flat to 221B. He watched as people walked by, expecting to see John. He couldn’t understand how he could just disappear as he did. After several minutes, Molly knocked on the window. “Whenever you’re ready. We’re in your kitchen.” She didn’t even pause, but turned around and went back inside. Sherlock looked up at the windows, imagining he could see John’s silhouette as he waited for Sherlock to come home. This was not how he wanted to return.

Sherlock took several deep breaths before opening the door and stepping out. His mind rushed to the first time he had seen John outside that blue door, to his intense desire to impress his new flat mate as he tried to act normal. Fortunately, he hadn’t managed to keep up his façade for long, because neither he nor John would have liked that man. Sherlock’s hands shook ever so slightly as he opened the door. He stepped inside the darkened hall and could almost feel the shadows of the past surround him… suffocating him.

He thought about the woman sitting upstairs as he smelled the tea and biscuits she was serving.  He heard Mrs. Hudson’s muffled voice as she spoke with Mycroft, this woman who had become as their mother had probably hurt as well.

As he ascended the stairs Sherlock felt a tear creep into his eyes. He stopped for a moment almost at the very top of the stairs. He could almost see John walking around on the landing, getting ready to yell at him for taking off after some absurd lead on a case. Sherlock touched the wall to steady himself as he recalled the numerous times they had gone running out of the flat. Sherlock opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Now, being as close as he was to home, he was more determined than ever to find John. He wasn’t going to allow himself to become stuck in the past. He had to keep moving forward.

Sherlock walked through the open the door to the flat. He was shocked to see it. It looked almost the same as the day he had been arrested. Some things had been moved, most likely by John. His violin was sitting in his chair and his books weren’t in the correct order, his favorite mug was sitting on John’s side of the table. The pillow John always used lay discarded on the floor. Sherlock had a sudden urge to bend down and pick it up and return it to John’s chair. But he was there to owe Mrs. Hudson an explanation. He forced himself not to look at the forlorn object. He walked into the kitchen. They had clearly intended for Sherlock to see the flat before confronting Mrs. Hudson. Several things had been moved in the kitchen. He noticed his microscope and chemistry equipment were in boxes on the floor and the kitchen seemed to house only food, which caused Sherlock to feel unsettled. Mrs. Hudson sat at the table with her back to him. He noticed she had pulled out six cups, still preparing tea for Sherlock and John.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he said bracing himself for what was bound to be a tearful reunion.

She turned around slowly in her seat until she was facing him. “Sherlock?”

He took a step towards her. “I’m back.”

“Well, it’s about time!” She said with a huge smile on her face. Everyone was stunned by her reaction. “I expected you back months ago. What took you so long?”

“What?” Molly asked. “How did you know?”

“Well, when Mycroft wouldn’t let me sell any of his possessions or rent the flat out again, even after John had left, I figured a man like him, who’s not terribly sentimental, wouldn’t want to keep his brothers things set up like a shrine but never visit. I may not be as good as Sherlock, but I could figure out that this was only a temporary situation.”

Sherlock was astounded by her deduction. He gave a soft chuckle. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson. You’ll never cease to surprise me.”

She simply stood up and held her arms out. “Don’t just stand there. Now give us a proper hug.” He bent over slightly and wrapped his arms around her. He wasn’t sure why, but Sherlock felt a sudden rush of pain through his heart. Hugging Mrs. Hudson, caused him to think on John. “Oh, dearie,” she whispered so only he could hear. “I’m so sorry about John.” He stiffened slightly, but with several good pats on the back he relaxed again. “If I know anything, I’m sure you’ve got a plan on how to bring him home.” Sherlock simply nodded. “Good, it’s time he came home too.”

Standing there, holding the closest link he had to John, he let himself think about how he had anticipated his reunions to go. He had expected Lestrade to be relieved. He had expected Mrs. Hudson to cry. And he had expected John to… to at least be there. But so far, these people surprised him.

When Sherlock pulled away from her, he looked around the room at four out of the five people that he trusted most in the world, the only ones who could know that Sherlock was alive for the time being.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Hudson took the time to notice the changes in Sherlock. There were lots of ways to describe how he appeared, but the two that kept running through her mind were lonely and sad. When Sherlock had initially come to look at the flat, Mrs. Hudson had seen the same look in his eyes. It frightened her when he looked that way. She had insisted that she would allow him to rent the flat if he could find a flat mate. In the weeks that followed, he would show up at her door. He insisted that he was someone who couldn’t share a flat with another person. It was only her suggestion that he ask friends for recommendations which seemed to spark something. She had never asked how Sherlock found John. All she knew was a few days later Sherlock showed up at her door with boxes. When she opened the door he smiled, and for once, she didn’t see someone lonely or sad. She saw triumph and excitement. Not a word was said, because she knew Sherlock wouldn’t dare test her by moving in without finding a flat mate. She allowed him to bring his items and unpack. The next day she met John, and they were off having exciting adventures not more than ten minutes after setting foot in 221B. Now, here he was again, alone in a flat that was too big and too empty for him, just as it had been for John. Sherlock seemed so lost; as though he had planned everything out, but there was still something was left. She knew what was missing, the one person she was sure he had been longing to see more than the others.

“Do you know where John is, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson prompted. She felt her cheeks get damp, her only clue that she was crying.

Sherlock seemed to snap out of his thoughts as he looked to Mycroft. “Get me all of the CCTV footage you have of John.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins his search.

221B became their central command for finding John. Mycroft had brought over all of the CCTV footage he had on John since Sherlock’s death. While he had heard from everyone that John rarely left the flat, he assumed they were exaggerating. However, at the end of 16 hours of footage spanning 2 years, he realized they had been kind.

Everyone seemed to be on edge. It had been a while since they had all been together. Lestrade and Molly were the only ones who appeared to get on well. Molly avoided Mycroft for a while, still appearing to be uncomfortable around him. Mycroft and Lestrade were rarely in a room together without sarcastically snide comments flying about. Sherlock would often push them to fight trying to test a theory, while Mrs. Hudson trying to bring peace.

Molly had gone on her vacation, at Sherlock’s insistence. He knew how much she needed this time off and he also suspected the person she would be sharing her holiday with, would also appreciate it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before she left, she approached Sherlock.

“I’ve been thinking. There’s one other person we should tell,” she said as she brought him a cup of tea while he sat on the coffee table, his laptop sitting on the couch.

He took the cup from her. “Why should we tell Harry? She can’t help us.”

“How did you know I was going to suggest her?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock said as he shook his head. “Why do you think we should tell her?”

“Because, he’s her brother. She’s been worried sick about him. She deserves to know that there are still people out there looking for John.” She sat on the couch beside his computer.

“Is that all?” Sherlock said as he sipped his tea, never looking up from his work.

“What do you mean, ‘is that all’? Isn’t that enough?”

“I thought you’d be worried it will ruin your vacation, keeping this secret from your lover.”

Molly looked shocked. “I don’t… I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock finally lifted his head and gave her a knowing look.

“From the moment I saw you, I could tell you were in a relationship, and a very blissful one at that. In your bag are two plane tickets for tomorrow. Although I couldn’t read the name on the first ticket, the length of the name didn’t match yours. You mentioned staying in touch with Harry, and becoming close to her during your time watching John. Perhaps you are going as friends, but the location makes it highly unlikely.” Molly was blushing. “You appear to be very happy.”

“We are.” Sherlock nodded. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. I just wanted to wait until things weren’t so… you know.”

“Have fun on your trip.” Molly nodded as she stood up and walked to the door. “And if, you mention that a new lead has surfaced to find John, I’m sure Harry would be ecstatic at the news.” Molly smiled as she turned back and gave him a hug.

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock never left the flat, partly because of his fugitive status, partially because he was still supposed to be dead, but mostly because he had spent 2 years longing to be in 221B. He found himself avoiding anything that belonged to John. He refused to go up to John’s room, he put aside any items that were John’s and attempted to hide them. Once, he had pulled a sweater out from between the couch cushions. He allowed his hand to rub over the material for a moment before hiding it between the back of the couch and the wall. Where John had found comfort in Sherlock’s possessions, Sherlock found no such thing to be had in John’s. The only thing to be found in John’s room was guilt and questions. These things could be enough motivation to help Sherlock find his flat mate, had they produced the correct questions. Instead he found himself wondering things like ‘ _What will John say when he sees me’_ or ‘ _How will he react’_ which did little to help him push forward in the investigation. But there was one question that pressed in on him and caused him the most pain, _‘Would John even care? Would he event want to see me?’_ All these questions filled John’s possessions, and it was poison to Sherlock. He had spent 2 years trying to push these questions away, but now they lived in every inch of the flat.

Sherlock poured through video footage of John. It had taken Mycroft pointing him out for Sherlock to recognize him. Not because it had been 2 years, since he had seen him, but because he didn’t appear to be the same man he had left behind. Everyone’s description of him was ‘broken’ and ‘empty’, but none of those had described the physical changes. John looked thinner than what could be considered healthy. Sherlock thought about the first time he had seen him, he could tell immediately that John didn’t feed himself regularly. But back then, John cared enough to hide it well. This time, it was as though he didn’t care that everyone knew he wasn’t eating. When he walked, he didn’t have the soldier’s stride Sherlock was used to seeing. John always carried himself with pride, and as he walked you could tell he had been in the service. Now he took small quick steps with his shoulders hunched and head down his hands were either in his pockets, fiddling with something in his hand, or hanging limp at his side. It took seeing who John had become, in comparison to who he remembered, for Sherlock to realize how much danger he was truly in. John never spoke to anyone, made eye contact, smiled, or stopped by any shops. But John did appear to have a follower. A tall, wiry man followed John home 5 times in a row. Whatever John had gotten mixed up in, this new man would be the center of unraveling the mystery.

Sherlock called Mycroft and asked for as much CCTV footage from the area of the casinos as he could get his hands on. He didn’t tell Mycroft why, he simply took it and closed the door. Mrs. Hudson would bring Sherlock food and tea, hoping to encourage him to eat. But she often took the trays away, untouched. When Sherlock began to eat several days later, Mrs. Hudson did as Mycroft had instructed and called him. Mycroft arrived with Lestrade a few minutes later. As the two of them stepped into the flat, they were greeted by the sight of Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the coffee table facing the wall. Lestrade stopped as he tried to take in the truly terrifying sight of the room. The walls and surfaces were covered with pictures from the CCTV footage. They had seen him do this before, but it was nothing like what was laid out before them. It reached around from the door to wall where it had started to cover the windows and almost to the book cases.

 “What is all of this?” Lestrade asked as he walked up and touched one of the papers.

Mycroft, who had sat down in Sherlock’s chair and was twiddling his umbrella around, simply stated “You’re looking into the mind of my brother.” Mycroft hadn’t looked at the wall when he came in. He only needed to look at his brother for a few moments to see everything. It was clear Sherlock hadn’t slept or ate, but that wasn’t what Mycroft had noticed. The way Sherlock looked reminded him of when his brother had been using. The thought terrified him, to look at his brother and know where he had been and where he could end up again.  But there was one thing that seemed to keep him from tipping over the edge. It was something Mycroft hardly even remembered being in the flat before. But even now, as Sherlock sat, he could see the hint of it between his brother’s legs. It was a small pillow with the Union Jack on it. He knew it belonged to his brother, but why he held it as often as he did, Mycroft couldn’t understand. It wasn’t until late last night, when he had recalled the times he had been in the flat, when both John and Sherlock were there, that he remembered John had a fondness for that pillow. He always chose the chair that housed it and on one occasion he had seen John throw it at Sherlock. This pillow seemed to be the only thing in the world to help Sherlock cling to reality… and to John.

Mycroft knew his brother was still angry with him, he hoped bringing John home would help heal his brother. Mycroft, trying to pull some reaction out of his brother, simply stated “Surly you’ve figured it out by now.” He half expected Sherlock to respond with ‘of course’ or ‘obvious’; instead, Sherlock turned around on the coffee table and faced his brother.

“Tell me brother,” Sherlock spat. “If it is so obvious, why don’t you tell me where he is? Why don’t you tell me why you couldn’t find him? Tell me why you had to wait for two years until I returned.”

Mycroft was just glad he had managed to get a response from his brother, even an angry one. Sherlock had been reluctant to speak with Mycroft about anything regarding the case or John unless he was demanding things.

“Will you talk us through this?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock turned back around to face the wall. After a moment, he stood up, still on the coffee table. “Everything we have here is what we can see from the CCTV footage.” He gestured to the wall behind the couch.

“You can see this much from the camera footage of John? I must have gone over those tapes a hundred times, I never saw all of this.” Lestrade muttered.

“Well, you wouldn’t have. These 3 men,” he pointed to the top row of pictures where 3 distinctive faces could be seen among all the other pictures “spend their days going in and out of casinos. That’s it. They don’t shop, eat in public, except for lunches, they don’t go to cinemas. While these men,” he gestured to the 3 on the bottom row “are not confined to a few locations. They appear to travel quite freely.” Sherlock waived around the room where pictures of the same six men were featured over and over again.

Lestrade leaned in close to see picture upon picture layered some 4 deep. In the center was a blank spot. “What goes there?” Lestrade asked.

“One more person.”

“John?”

“No, not John. But there’s someone else involved with these six men. They wouldn’t just do this on their own… we’re missing their leader.” Sherlock hadn’t seen anyone he was confident in deducing as the group’s leader. Aside from each other, and various other people whom the bottom three visited, these men were never seen in the company of anyone else. Sherlock had realized after several hours that this man excelled at avoiding the police. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to be caught on CCTV, he was smart, which means he had to be elusive. Which lead Sherlock to one conclusion about who John had become, because no longer was there the John Sherlock had known. “We need to set up a sting.”

Lestrade and Mycroft glanced at each other. They knew Sherlock wanted to go out and actively look for John, but they were reluctant at best to even entertain this option. Sherlock, despite his outward appearance was a wreck and they knew it. Putting Sherlock in a position like this would mean that he would be emotionally compromised. Yes, even Sherlock would become too emotional to handle this. They had discussed who would talk him out of it, but neither man wanted to do it, and the time for discussion was over. They could tell Sherlock was ready and they knew he wanted his John back.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started. “I think we need to send someone experienced in for a sting.” Sherlock completely ignored him. Lestrade continued speaking. “It would just make more sense for someone without an emotional connection. If we do allow you to do this, and it backfires, you know the chance of ever finding John… well… he’ll be lost for good.”

After a few moments of silence Mycroft shook his head. “He’s not listening. Unfortunately, my brother is very stubborn and telling him no isn’t going to make a difference.”

“I’m glad you see it my way,” Sherlock said. Lestrade glared at Mycroft.

 “I agree with him, Sherlock. It would be best not to put you in this situation.”

 “After all that I have done for you?” Sherlock turned to face his brother with all the built up rage he refused himself to feel, knowing that the rage could do nothing to help John. “After everything you know me to be capable of, everything I’ve had to endure, you think I can’t do this? You’re saying that you don’t trust me to handling this?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. And if you would stop and think, you’d see it too. Because you are emotionally compromised and I will not allow that to interfere.”

“Me? I’m emotionally compromised?”

“Yes” Mycroft said. Sherlock huffed. “What now, little brother, are you going to sulk?”

“See, I would have expected you to think I was too emotionally compromised to deal with Moriarty’s network. But I wasn’t, was I? I went through them, took them all out, but you think this is where I would become emotionally compromised?.”

Mycroft simply smiled. “You know why. Because you were not doing what you did then for love. You did it because you were angry.” Sherlock stiffened at the word ‘love’. “Yes Sherlock, love. What was it Father used to say? ‘Bitterness is a paralytic; love is a much more viscous motivator’.”

“Love?” He saw Lestrade out of the corner of his eye. The man looked highly uncomfortable, understandably so.

“Sherlock, I don’t think you know love because I think you’re afraid of it. You’re afraid it would weaken you.”

Sherlock changed the subject. “You should be thankful, that I am actually going to work with you instead of working on my own. If you take me out, if you don’t let me work with you, I will handle this on my own and I will get him without you. So you can either have me work with you or apart.”

Mycroft, seeing he had been beaten, simply said “Well, Lestrade, I’ll get you the permits for the sting. We’ll start in three days.”

“That’s not soon enough!”

“It’s going to have to be Sherlock. I might be able to do a lot of things, but pushing through an undercover sting operation with a confidential informant takes time, and meetings, and paperwork. If you want to go, you have to wait.” Mycroft left.

Sherlock and Lestrade stood there, silent. “Do you ever get the feeling that your brother has the entire world planned out?”

 “I’d be afraid the day I felt he didn’t.”

“What do you make of the hole in the center?” Lestrade motioned to the wall.

“It is… problematic.” Sherlock was a little thrilled. He thought it would all be too simple. Coming back to find everything they had missed. He was a little happy there was still some mystery left. Sherlock sat back down on the table, steepled his fingers under his chin, and didn’t say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can I just say a HUGE thank you to everyone who has read this!  
> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> Trust me, you are in for an amazing ride.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes undercover.

Molly returned home, and the next day came to 221B to help Sherlock undergo his transformation into the undercover identity. After the pleasantries had been handed out, she was caught up on everything she had missed. She instantly perked up when she was told about their plan to disguise Sherlock. Apparently, everyone found the idea of it quite funny. Molly got to work and dying Sherlock’s hair blonde. He hated it instantly. She also put in product to make his hair hang limp instead of in curls. They had even insisted he dye his eyebrows, even though Sherlock was positive no one would have recognized him before even if he had wandered about London wearing that stupid hat and a sign saying “I’m Sherlock Holmes”.

Mycroft and Lestrade worked to get the approval for the sting operation, while Sherlock planned his strategy. The day before he was to start, Mycroft came into the flat and handed him a box with a jacket button in it. “You don’t need to know where this comes from, just know that we have outfitted you with a wire and camera so we will have video and audio for any court proceedings we may have after this.” Sherlock simply put it down on the nearest surface for Mrs. Hudson sewed it onto his suit jacket.

Sherlock started off at the casinos John had visited. He had monitored John’s patters, and copied them. Mycroft had donated a substantial amount of money to the cause, and Sherlock could think of no greater use for his brother’s money than to waste it. It hadn’t taken too long before he was approached by David. He had been on a spectacular losing streak for days. While he could count cards, he also had no natural talent for gambling, and found it easy to prolong a good losing streak. He recognized David immediately from his wall. Sherlock had seen him with the man who followed John home on the CCTV footage.

It hadn’t taken David too long to approach him, and introduce himself. Sherlock introduced himself as Anders who came along with a full back story created and perfected by Mycroft and Lestrade. David asked Anders about his job and seemed pleased when he mentioned that he was a day trader. He had to have a good job, good source of income, and a way to pay him back. Over the next couple of days, Anders talked quite a bit about a job that was coming available that he would be perfect for, if the boss didn’t pass him up on another promotion. He scattered in stories about how he was far and above the best employees, but his boss didn’t like him. On nights where he was feeling low, Anders would mention his ex-wife who had run off to America, how he lived alone in an empty flat share. He was alone, he had a good job, and he was steady in his losing streak with a couple of big wins to come close to breaking even. Surely he would be too good to pass up.

The first time he had been offered credit, Sherlock hadn’t been prepared. He had anticipated he would need to work David longer. Anders hadn’t even run out of money he simply tried to call it a night saying he should save some money for rent. David pulled out a handful of chips and set it in front of him "a few more hands… on me.” He supposed it probably helped that he had just been on a rare winning streak and happened to over bet on a crap hand. It wasn’t a terribly impressive amount, just a few hundred quid. It was a test. Anders lost the money after a few hands. Fortunately, he got a promotion along with a raise a few days later. He used it to pay off almost the entire debt, and gambled away the rest of it. David, apparently impressed by all of this, extended a more generous line of credit telling Anders he didn’t need to stop gambling at the end of the day because he was out of money. He could play as much as he wanted borrowing David’s when he was out of his money and pay back with a little bit of interest. But David made a mistake; he was assuming payments would always be made as quickly. At the beginning, Anders always paid on time to avoid any unnecessary visitors, but too little to truly pay off anything as his funds were getting to the point where he could no longer afford it. Before he knew it, Anders was drowning in his debt, fast. He had to applaud their way of hooking people in.

Sherlock personally detested the gambling. Even knowing what was coming, he still found himself fighting the urge to take control of the situation and prove he could beat the deck. And at the end of the day, he couldn’t even return to his own flat. He was staying at Lestrade’s, which they had set up under Anders’ name. After all, it wouldn’t do for Anders to live in the same flat as one of their past targets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been two months since they had started the opperation, when Sherlock took a real gamble. He was ready to move on with the next part of the plan. He was ready to see John and bring him back home. Anders came into the casino once he was sure David was already there. Not only had Anders confided in David, but David had in turn shared information about his life with him. They had formed a bond, one that some might call ‘friendship.’ That would be what David felt for Anders, which was something that he could play that to his advantage. He started playing a more aggressive style than he had before. David, immediately alerted to a change in betting style, went to Anders.

“Rough day?” David asked.

Anders simply grunted.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No…. Raise.” David watched as Anders played his hand. Once the hand was done, David stepped behind and took a peak at Anders’ hand. He was bluffing. Anders never bluffed; it was one of the things David had appreciated most about his betting style. It was one of the reasons why he had been able to extend so much credit.

Anders simply continued to bet higher and higher on each hand until everyone else at the table folded. He was winning, not through strength of cards, but through over betting and bluffing. The people around him folded quickly and often. David didn’t leave Anders’ side, even after the other players left to play at different tables. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He asked after the table had emptied and Anders sat with a pile of chips in front of him.

“Well,” he said with a sneer. “I’ve got to make money somehow.” As he stood up from the table and tried to collect all of his chips.

David stopped him. “You lost your job? What happened?”

“Apparently, you can’t gamble on company time… unless it’s with the company’s money.”

“What?”

“I was caught gambling on company time. Apparently, they were monitoring the websites I visited and realized what I was doing. So they fired me.”

“Anders….”

“Listen, if you can get me just a little more credit, just until I find a job.”

David took pity on Anders and quickly orchestrated some more credit to help him out in this difficult time, causing Anders to sink further into a hole that he could not save himself from… just as he had planned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Sherlock returned to his undercover flat, Mycroft and Lestrade were waiting for him. “What have you done?” Lestrade burst out as soon as Sherlock walked through the door.

“My little brother seems to have gotten a little impatient.” Mycroft sneered sarcastically.

“I have been getting a little restless, yes. But that’s not why I did it.”

Mycroft thought for a moment, “Ahh, it would make sense yes. But it would have afforded us a better opportunity had you waited on us, or included us. Now, we’re left to try to clean up your mess.”

Sherlock shook his head. “They were going to start monitoring me at work. In fact, tonight I was followed home by David. Now, I’m under their surveillance. So I am getting closer.”

“You’re just so proud of yourself aren’t you?” Lestrade asked. “Dug yourself into a hole. You’ve lost your job, no money, no source of income. How on earth are you going to be able to pay these people back?”

“You sound as though it’s a genuine problem,” Sherlock dismissed.

“Look at it from their point of view. It is a genuine problem.”

“No, from their point of view, do you know what I’ve become? An ally. Someone they can go to when they need something done, and perhaps one day they’ll offer me a job. The next thing I’ll need to do is lose my flat.”

“Sherlock you’re pushing this.” Lestrade seemed overly worried.

“Am I? John thought he lost the flat,” Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “He assumed it was as good as gone, that he was being forced out. If the one who followed John listened, he would know that John had these fears of losing his home… that’s how they get away with it. You’ve set up surveillance on these people. Tell me, what have you found on their home addresses?” He kept talking before Mycroft could get the chance to answer. “They don’t live there. They never go there. Their last known addresses are empty because they stay with each other. They live together. It’s probably because they have nowhere else to live. I can guarantee wherever they’re staying they are all together. And from the looks of David, they appear to be kept in good condition. His clothes are clean, if old. He seems to have the same 7 shirts and trousers are worn over again, he often smells as though he’s had a good meal, and showered. And I know that’s where they’re holding John.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “You can’t know that John is alive. Let alone that he is being held by these people.”

“I do know. When John makes a pot of tea, he mixes two teas and I have never seen anyone else do that before. And the day David stops smelling of that mixture, is the day I know John will no longer be there.”

Mycroft and Sherlock had a stare down, while Lestrade was stuck in the middle to just watch and wait for the first person to blink.

“Well then,” Mycroft said. “If you’re going to take matters into your own hand, perhaps it’s time for me to do the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there’s someone I have been watching. I think I should pay them a visit; see if I can make a little extra room.”

“Very well, I’ll return to the casino tomorrow, and start losing.”

Lestrade, confused, asked “What’s going on?”

Mycroft meerly stood up and beckoned Lestrade to follow him. Sherlock smiled offhandedly as he watched them leave. They both left, and Sherlock found himself alone, again. As always, he couldn’t help but think of John. He was so close to him now. He knew it. He was sure one of the men would disappear in the next few days and when they did, Sherlock would have his in.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Anders stared losing more and more money. He sat in the casino all day, refusing to get a job. Alarm bells had to be going off in David’s head that this man he had trusted on a whim to extend so much credit to, was now taking them down. Then one night, just as every ounce of control was slipping away and even Sherlock felt himself drowning, he received a message from Mycroft saying that they had turned someone from the organization. The man had come to them that night and was now under protective custody. Sherlock knew he needed to be ready to lose it all tomorrow for the sake of winning John.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So there Sherlock sat, waiting for David to return, to bring whoever he had to call for approval. Sherlock had never been nervous before, but today was different. He knew what was at stake. It would take everything in him to say the right thing at the right time. He thought of John. What had John said to gain their trust? Had John sat in this spot over a year ago, waiting for the same thing? Had they offered it to him before, and he had turned it down, only accepting the position when he felt he had nowhere else to turn? Sherlock knew he would only get one chance and he would need to take that desperation he felt towards finding John and put it towards his predicament.

David didn’t return to sit with Anders once he hung up the phone. Instead, he went to a back room. Anders waited, drinking, ordering another, until he recognized a man walking through the door. It was a man he had seen on CCTV footage only a few times. He walked up to Anders and sat down.

“I'm Erik, David's boss. I hear you owe me money, and quite a fair bit of it.” Anders nodded. “How did you get yourself into this?” He hadn’t expected to need to explain. But he did in short and few sentences.

“I lost my job.”

“We were already extending you credit, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“And you got more?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like to lose money, especially the amount that you owe us. Do you intend on getting a job? Be honest.”

Anders looked down at his drink. “I can’t.”

“Don’t want to work again?”

“No, it’s not that, I’ve made some enemies at work. By now my reputation has spread and no one will take me.”

“Surely you could do something. I assume you’re good with numbers and making predictions.”

“Yes.”

“I would say you’re good at betting, but it doesn’t appear that you are.” Anders didn’t say anything. “What if I could get you a job? I have a very select group of people who work for me and I have a recent vacancy in my operation. I believe you can be the person to help me.” Anders looked up at him.

“Really? You’d… you’d hire me?”

“Understand there will be no taking home paychecks. Instead, you’ll be paying everything to me. I will take care of everything food, housing. Once you’ve paid me off, you’ll be free to go.”

“I’ll take the job. When can I start?”

Erik smiled. “David will escort you home. You’ll pick up any necessities you might need. Everything else will be sold. We’ll handle that.”

“I sublet. None of the stuff in my flat is mine, except for some clothes.”

“Very well,” Erik said. “And know this. You have played your last hand. Like your other job, we do not permit gambling. You may play cards at the flat, but not for money.”

Anders nodded.

Sherlock couldn’t understand how these men were so willing to do this, give up everything and leave. But even he had started to feel desperation and fear and he had been in control. What had it been like for John?

“I’ll see you tonight. And perhaps I’ll have a little welcome gift ready for you.” Erik left the table, and Sherlock noticed David slip out from the back to speak with him. He felt his heart pound and held to the table in front of him for support. David finished speaking with Erik and returned to Sherlock.

“Welcome to our group. Let’s get your things.”

“Let me sober up a bit.” Anders excused himself and David followed him into the loo.

“Turn over your phone. You can’t make any calls.” Anders handed over his phone.

“Now you may go.” David stayed outside the bathroom.

Sherlock splashed some water on his face, did his best to calm himself, and returned to David. They caught a cab to Anders’ flat. He wanted to ask David questions, instead he decided to wait.

It was in the car that Sherlock realized something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something not right about David today. He thought back, it had been there all day. He put his hand to his face and smelled the alcohol on his fingers. His eyes widened… the man next to him, smelled of coffee. The man no longer smelled of John. Sherlock had to force the thoughts away from his mind. He was getting to his best friend as fast as he could, but he had to keep his wits about him. They would be approaching the dragon’s den and what was to come, Sherlock couldn’t begin to anticipate. All he did was hope that John was there.

They pulled up to Anders’ Flat. They entered together. “Not bad. It’s more than I assumed you’d be able to afford.”

Anders shrugged. “The owner owed me a favor.”

“I see. How much of this stuff is yours?”

“None of it.”

“That makes this easy.” Anders packed as many of his clothes as he could in a small bag. David stopped him on his way out and searched the bag. “What else are you leaving behind?”

“Some clothes. There’s nothing else. I sold what I had from my divorce after I lost my job.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

Sherlock wondered if John had the same opportunity to return to collect his items. Either way, he had decided against returning, as was evident by the fact that all his possessions were still in 221B. When he left, he left knowing that he wouldn’t return. Anders turned off the lights and locked the flat, placing the key under the rug. It was a sign he would give to Mycroft that everything was going accoring to plan still. 

The cab ride was silent again. Sherlock had a million questions, but couldn’t bring himself to ask any of them because they weren’t something Anders would ask. Sherlock allowed his nervousness to become visible, normally going out of the way to hide it. Had he appeared overconfident, that could trigger something in David to alert him that something wasn't right. They stopped at an intersection and got out. David paid the driver. It wasn’t until he climbed out of the cab and turned around that Sherlock realized it had been Lestrade.

“We’ll have to walk a bit. Unfortunately we cannot drive to the flat.” David paused. “What we’re doing is illegal. This is the one place where we can be safe, so we have to protect it.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Then you’ll have to learn your own way to get there. Every day you’ll have to take a different route, make different turns, and take different streets.” Anders nodded. “Not only that, you’ll need to avoid CCTV cameras, to a degree. I mean, you can’t avoid them all the time. Every morning we leave about 9 am, and return by 9 pm. If you don’t you are considered a deserter, it’s better to try to return a half hour early. The door in will always be unlocked.”

“There are two doors?”

David shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that. There’s one door, two locks. One that locks from the outside keeping us in, one that locks from the inside locks people out.”

“That’s… creative.”

“It’s effective. Erik is the only one with the keys, and he keeps them close.”

“What if you have to leave for a date, or family thing?”

“You have no family, no life. This is your life now.”

This is what John had gotten himself into? “How many people are there at the flat?”

“There are 8 of us. There’s me, Erik, Liam, Nicholas, Marcus, Rhys, and now you.”

“That’s only 7.”

“I can’t remember the other guy’s name. No one does. He’s more there to assist us than do any… actual work.”

Sherlock felt his blood rising. Who were these people that they couldn’t remember the name John. But Sherlock couldn’t think about that now. John was still alive. Something was wrong, but John was still alive.

“What does he do?”

“Stays at home all day. He tried to run away once.”

“What happened?”

“He owed us too much money; in comparison you owe us a small fraction. He was worth more to us alive.” David mistook Anders grasping his bag tighter for fear instead of anger. “Don’t worry, stay out of trouble and you’ll be fine. Just don’t try to leave.”  Anders nodded. The walked for another 20 minutes while David explained a little more about the way things were at the flat.

Sherlock could barely hear though. If what he said was true, Sherlock would be near John again soon… very soon. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. He had wanted to see his best friend for 2 years, and now here he was.

When they finally reached the flat, Sherlock almost couldn’t breathe. They had wandered around in circles in a questionable neighborhood full of warehouses and abandoned factories. They climbed the stairs to what had probably been an office before it had been taken over. But none of that mattered.

Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else besides the fact that John was on the other side of the door.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after Stephen's desertion.

John woke the next morning to the sensation he was drowning. He opened his eyes, gasping for breath as he struggled to get up, but found he was chained to the floor. His head pounded as he tried to bring his breathing under control. Erik set down an empty pot and began unchaining him. John’s head was throbbing, and he felt sick. “Get up!” Erik grabbed John by the hair and pulled him up as soon as he was unchained. John reached up to grab at the force that pulled him up, the searing pain in his hands as he made contact with Erik reminded him of his injury. John’s legs were wobbly, and the room spun around him as he stood. He looked down at his bandaged hands. The white gauze had turned a sickly yellow and was wet to the touch. His blistered hands were obviously oozing beneath the bandages, and John knew he’d have to change them. He felt the chain go around his ankle, as he tried to steady himself. The men around him were sluggish and slow moving. They made requests for coffee as he stumbled to the kitchen.

John started on his morning routine. He began cooking breakfast, the smell and thought of food made his stomach churn. He listened to the men’s morning meeting, noticing everyone appeared to be more tense than usual. John couldn't quite grasp what they were discussing. Something had happened, but John’s brain felt so clouded he could hardly think.  

“He owes us a lot of money, lost his job, and doesn't seem motivated to find another one.”

“Would he make a good spotter?” Erik inquired.

“I believe so. He seems to be able to read people easily. At least, I get the feeling that he’s always reading me. Plus, he was a trader and, until he lost his job, he was very meticulous, and his betting style was conservative.”

“Very well. Call me when he’s lost everything, I’ll approach him. Extend no more credit, cut him off.”

“You’ll be getting a phone call today. I know where he is with the money.”

Erik then spoke to his enforcers. “You’ll need to find Stephen. Forget anything you had to do today. Nothing is as important as finding him. If he’s dead, leave him. If he’s alive, kill him. As long as he is breathing, he is able to speak about us. He’s too clever to go to the police, and he values his freedom too much.”

When the meeting was done, the men came and ate. John, still nursing his blistered hands and fighting the urge to be sick, had resigned to make a simple breakfast for them that day. He knew the men didn't mind, as long as they got the chance to eat. It was then that he realized he had made too much food. He looked around and realized Stephen wasn't there. 

As the men left for the day, Erik cornered John. “I want you to take all of Stephen’s belongings and destroy them. Throw them away, burn them, I don’t care. I want everything gone. Keep his sheets for the new employee, but all his clothes, any possessions need to be gone.” John nodded, still not looking at him. He knew better and kept his head down. “Take extra care today in cleaning the flat. We’re bringing a new one in, and we want everything to be as nice as possible for him. We don’t want to scare him off on his first day.” John nodded again.

 “Good, and if every trace of Stephen is not gone by the time I get back… let’s just say wherever we find Stephen’s body… yours will join it.” John nodded, trying to prevent his body from shaking more than it already was as Erik left following the others. It was not often that he was threatened. Most of the time he didn't need to be or, like the incident with the tea kettle the day before, he wasn't warned before receiving his punishment.

John wished he could remember what had happened.  From the sounds of it, Stephen had escaped, and managed to get away. And if that was the case, John could understand why this bothered Erik so much. Stephen had been his second in command. They had been together, almost from the beginning. With Stephen leaving, Erik lost a lot of power. He didn't want to appear weak in front of his men, but now he looked as though he was unable to control them.  To a man like Erik who craved power and demanded respect, having his right hand man defect without punishment, even in John’s eyes Erik was less intimidating. But with the threat against John’s life, he found himself renewed in his belief that Erik was indeed a leader to be feared.

There was a part of John that sincerely hoped Stephen had made it to safety. It was the side that hoped one day, he too might leave. John wanted Stephen go to the police, but he doubted that he would think of the others now that he was free. After all, he had made it, and while John knew that if he ever got out he would do his best to help the others— No, that was the idealistic side of him, because, although the others were trapped just like him, they were treated as humans. And John wanted nothing more than for these men to suffer like him.

Besides, he knew Erik was right, if Stephen valued his freedom he wouldn't go to the police. He wouldn't even stay in London. He would hide out somewhere just long enough for the men to stop looking for him, and then he’d get out of town. John truly wanted Stephen to be free, because he liked clinging to the hope that even one person could make it out and therefore there was the thought that the next person could be him.

He also knew that the longer Erik went without having Stephen dead or returned, he would become more ruthless. And what terrified John most was that he had been the last deserter before Stephen, which meant he would surely be getting the brunt of Erik’s anger.

As difficult as it was to discard all of Stephen’s items, clothes, personal items, John feared Erik’s wrath if he saw anything had been left behind. John simply threw it away, burying it in the bottom of the trash. John made the first load of laundry Stephens’ sheets. He normally had 3 more days before he did those, but he knew Erik wanted to get rid of anything that lingered of Stephen, even if it was just his scent. As soon as the wash was done, John hung it to dry. It was then that he saw torn scraps of paper he had accidentally put through. John went to throw it away, but noticed it had something that been written by hand. John started his next load of clothes and sat down for a rest, laying out all of the scraps he could find. It took him longer than he should have spent to try to put the pieces back together without damaging them further. Some scraps had disintegrated and couldn't be saved, while other parts had been smudged and was nothing more than streaks. John stared at the writing, forcing his mind to make sense of the lines, until something seemed to click. Parts of the words were missing, but there was enough for John to just make out parts of it.

_-hn,_

_For-ve me. Can’t ta- -u -th me._

_I_ _-ll retur- -r you._

John couldn’t breathe. _Was he saying that he’d return for me?_ John thought _. No, what possible reason would he have to return for me?_ He took the crumpled pieces, cursing himself for wasting so much time on hope, and pushed it into the trash with the rest of what was left of Stephen.

John continued with his work, refusing to give himself hope that Stephen had made a promise he either wouldn't be able to fulfill or wouldn't be worth keeping. Besides, how could Stephen possibly know who would be the one to get that message? If Erik had seen it John was sure that no one would be left alive. If he couldn't keep his men under lock and key, Erik would rather kill them than lose them.

John wondered how long it would take Erik to arranged for other accommodations. They had been looking for a new hideout on the other side of London for several weeks to appease Erik’s constant paranoia. They had stayed too long in their current flat and would need to leave to find new casinos and new targets, especially now that Stephen was gone. There was no telling who would  know their location. It only made sense that they move as soon as they could. But Erik appeared more determined to replace Stephen than move location, as though he was reluctant to leave. Perhaps the decision against moving had caused Erik to make a crucial error. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erik returned early to find John making the couch up for the replacement. Erik approached, hovering above him, inspecting his work for a moment. John straightened up and Erik grabbed him around the waist and roughly forced John against his body. The sudden movement caused John’s head to snap back and he felt immediately sick. “When I come home early, I expect for you to stop what you’re doing and come to me. I am your master and you are only here to serve me. I am the only reason you are not lying dead in a bin. What don’t you understand about that?” Erik whispered harshly in John’s ear. John looked down, knowing what was coming next. “I want to make sure you’re ready for tonight.” Erik pushed John to the middle of the floor as he followed. “Now, suck me off. Show me how you’ll welcome my new employee.”

John approached slowly and got down on his knees in front of Erik as he pulled out his already hard cock. John took it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip. Erik moaned as John slowly took more of Erik’s cock in his mouth. He brought his hand up and used his fingers to massage Erik’s balls giving them small squeezes, the way he knew Erik liked. “Remember, you want this.” Erik said as he began rocking his hips trying to get John to go faster. John’s stomach churned the more he head bobbed back and forth. Erik was pushing his cock down John’s throat. He dragged his tongue along the underside of Erik's cock, knowing that was where he was the most sensitive. Erik grabbed John’s hair as he began fucking his mouth hard. “Come on! You want this!”

John felt his stomach ready to reject its content, and he started to panic, struggling to get away. He was going to vomit, and couldn't imagine what would happen if he did while Erik’s cock was in his mouth. John tried to fight the urge to get sick as Erik forced himself in John’s mouth over and over again, picking up speed. “Keep going!” Erik had his hands on either side of John’s head keeping him from moving as he thrust himself in over and over again. John couldn't move, and he could feel the contents of his stomach ready to come up his throat. In desperation John bit down on Erik’s cock, not enough to hurt him, but hopefully enough to make him pull out of John’s mouth. Erik did and hit John across the face so hard it knocked him to the ground. John held on long enough to only throw up on the concrete floor without it splattering on Erik. He was on all fours retching, leaning on his forearms as he continued to empty what little content his stomach held.

John took a deep breath after he had finished a few seconds later and realized there was a chill behind him. He felt Erik grab his hips and John tried to crawl away, whimpering, knowing what was coming next, but the grip was too tight for John to move more than a few inches. Erik put the tip at John’s entrance and forced his cock in with a quick stroke. John bit his lip trying not to scream. The pain was excruciating as he felt himself stretched to accommodate the thick cock. Erik always made sure that the men were careful with John, but when he would take his turn in private, he was never happy unless he had John in tears. Erik thrust himself in over and over again, burying himself completely in John’s arse, grunting and moaning. John’s head spun as Erik pounded into him, occasionally causing him to vomit again. John felt himself near tears as the pain in his arse and head was enough to make his vision black out for several seconds, when he heard Erik groan as he buried himself deep and came.

He finally released John, who collapsed in his own vomit, his arms and legs too weak to support his weight. His whole body shook as he tried to move out of the puddle of sick. “Clean this mess up. I don’t want the flat smelling.” Erik said as left the flat again, leaving John to clean himself up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The men returned earlier that John had expected, with the exception of David. He hadn't finished dinner, which Erik always expected to be done by the time they had returned to the flat. Between the time it took him to clean up after Erik’s visit and his need to move slowly to avoid getting sick again, John wasn't able to work at his normal speed. He found himself taking frequent breaks throughout the day, his head still pounding and spinning. Erik announced that Stephen’s replacement had been recruited. He instructed everyone to give him a warm welcome. As John continued to cook the stew he had been preparing, Erik came up behind him.

“I trust there won’t be any issues like earlier.” John nodded. “Good. We want to make him feel like we’re eager and _willing_ for him to join us.” John shivered, knowing what he was asking. He nodded again, because whatever he did tonight with this new man was nothing compared to what Erik would do if he was unable to perform his part as a willing participant. The last thing any of them needed was for another person to go against Erik’s wishes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock at the flat.

“Welcome home,” David said as he opened the door to the flat. It wasn’t at all what Sherlock was expecting. One look at David told him that the men weren’t well off, but the conditions inside the flat were far worse than what he could have imagined. Couches, mattresses, and an old bed cluttered the small studio. There was almost no room to move about, except for an empty spot in the center of the floor with only a blanket covering the exposed concrete floor. A kitchen could be seen to the left where Erik stood speaking with someone, and a door that lead to the toilet was across the room from Sherlock. The flat was rundown, but smelled of perfumed chemicals that had been used to make an attempt at cleaning. David leaned in and whispered, “Come on. You can’t leave now.”

As they stepped in, Sherlock began to scan the faces in the room fervently, trying to find John. The men in the flat had looked up as he entered, and were now watching as he took stock of his new surroundings. He knew them all from photographs on his wall at Baker Street. Sherlock became a little panicked realizing that John wasn’t among them. He had to be the one in the kitchen talking with Erik. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to calm himself unless he saw John. At that moment, Erik stepped out and came to greet them. Sherlock felt panic as he saw the man who followed Erik. That wasn’t his John.

He knew it had to be. It didn’t make sense that it could be anyone else, but Sherlock couldn’t conceive how the man approaching him could possibly be the same man he had known only two years ago. This man was emaciated, pale, and unsteady on his feet. It was as though ten years had passed for this man, where only two had for Sherlock. He followed Erik and Sherlock heard a faint sound growing louder as he approached. Sherlock felt anger build up as his eyes caught the chain wrapped around John’s leg. He took small steps, having to use extra effort to drag the chain as he walked. He never looked up, and the closer he got Sherlock could see that his hands were wrapped in gauze, and the parts of his arms that were visible, sported bruises and scars.

David nudged him. “You ok, Anders?” Sherlock hadn’t been aware that he was staring. He quickly masked his anger as disgust.

“Who is that?”

“That’s… uh… that one guy I was telling you about.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing… that’s just how he is.”  _That’s just how he is?_ Sherlock had never felt so much anger and hate towards any person as with every man in the flat who had allowed this to happen. “That’s what happens when you try to leave. Erik keeps him here as a warning. We may not be free, but we are better off than him.”

Sherlock wanted to get John out now. But he and Mycroft had agreed that he would stay for an hour at least. Mycroft and Lestrade had convinced Sherlock that he needed to wait so they could get enough evidence from the button camera they had ensured was fastened securely to his jacket. At the time, Sherlock had agreed, because at least he would be with John. But seeing him now, Sherlock wanted to rescue John from this hell. All he would need to do is say the code word “Christmas”, and John would be saved. It took everything within Sherlock not to say it now.

“Ah, Anders. Welcome. Ignore him, he can’t even talk,” Erik said gesturing to John. Sherlock realized he was still staring and tried to make eye contact with Erik. He had to hide his hatred. John meant nothing to Anders. He was playing a part, and he had to remember John's place in Anders’ world.

 “Why can’t he talk?”

“He’s not allowed. He can’t speak to you or look you in the eye.  Isn’t that right?” John said nothing. “Come over here. Take his bag.”

Sherlock gripped the strap. John didn’t look like he would be able to carry the 15 pound bag. He hoped John would recognize some part of him, even if it just meant giving him a few moments of hope. With the blonde hair, Sherlock could hardly recognize himself. But the hair wouldn’t be the problem if John wouldn’t even look towards his face. Everything else was unchanged, and he hoped John could see something familiar left in him. Instead, he simply took Anders' bag and walked to one of the sofas. He set it down and began making up the sofa so it resembled the others. It broke Sherlock’s heart to see John like this. Sherlock’s John would have made some smart remark, cracked a joke, stood up for himself. Had John tried to stay his stubborn self in the beginning, only to have Erik break his spirit?  This John was subservient, silent, aiming to please. “Thank you.” Sherlock whispered to him as he followed, hoping his voice would trigger something. John simply nodded and continued his work.

“No need to thank him,” Erik said as he joined them.

Sherlock had hoped for his day, to finally see John, to see that he was ok. But even the John on the CCTV footage didn’t compare to the man standing before him. He turned and noticed the other men were staring at him. He wouldn’t be here long, but he was going to be here long enough that he couldn’t rouse suspicion. “It’s nice that you have someone… like him.”

“Part of what makes us special. He handles our… domestic needs.”

“Where’s dinner?” Someone shouted on cue. John left the couch where he had been working and slowly moved back to the kitchen. Sherlock hoped by the time they were done the hour would be up. He checked his watch. 50 minutes left. He was ushered to the front of the line as the guest of honor. John hadn’t been a spectacular cook; they often had to rely on Mrs. Hudson to feed them if they wanted an edible meal at home. Sherlock sat down on his couch to eat. The food was, by far, a finer quality that he had anticipated from John, but still he was surprised by the lack of taste. It was more for sustenance than enjoyment.

Sherlock peaked at John from where he sat. He was conflicted. John was alive… he was injured… but John  _was_  alive… but he wasn’t the same person he had known. Seeing him up close as he served them the food, Sherlock could see everything. The daily abuses, the extent of his malnourishment, the fact that John had cried earlier that day. Sherlock looked about the flat. His eyes caught the blanket discarded on the floor. It appeared to be the only thing out of place from the tidied flat. Sherlock noticed the end of John’s chain seemed to disappear under the blanket, and the outline of several metal rings could be seen. Sherlock’s hands shook as he tried to hide his anger. John only slept on a blanket? No, John always got cold at night, he wouldn’t sleep over it, he would prefer to sleep under it. The way John moved made it clear his body hurt. Although he had always tried to hide it, Sherlock knew that his shoulder had often bothered him. John had never wanted Sherlock to know if he was hurting, so Sherlock never said anything about it to protect his friend’s pride. Sleeping on the cold concrete would make the pain worse. Sherlock knew the others would be watching him, but he paid no mind to them. He had thought almost exclusively of seeing John again. From the moment he silently said good-bye as he watched John walk away from his grave site, he was the only person occupying Sherlock’s mind.

It wasn’t until Erik sat next to him that he snapped out of it.

“Well, if I had known you liked men I would have told you what the surprise is.”

“Surprise?” Sherlock felt a little confused.

“Yes, I told you there would be a welcome gift.” He nodded his head towards John. “That’s it.”

Sherlock felt his stomach plummet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that’s him. Free of charge, tonight only.”

It took everything within him not to grit his teeth. His rage turned white hot. How had he not seen the signs of sexual abuse? Sherlock looked to John. It was only too obvious. He wouldn’t look at them, and perhaps it was because of the rule that he couldn’t look them in the eye, but it didn’t account for the fact that he wouldn’t look at any part of the men. He didn’t take care of his appearance; he was bathed, but not groomed like he had been in the past. He kept himself as far apart from the others as he could, to avoid any unnecessary contact.

“There is only one, small thing. We all get to watch, that’s my gift to my men.”

Sherlock looked down at his watch. 30 minutes, he had to stall for 30 minutes. Sherlock couldn’t refuse this gift of good faith. He just needed to find a way to waist 30 minutes. “I would like a shower first.”

“We have a shower rotation, sorry but yours isn’t until 6 tomorrow morning.”

“I really should start unpacking.”

“He can get that for you. Would you prefer that he do it now, or after you’re done with him?”

“Now. Don’t want anything to get wrinkled.”

“Get over here! Unpack for Anders.” Erik called out to John. “You almost act as though you don’t want my gift.”

“No. It’s just I’ve never….”

“What?”

“… had an audience,” He lied, knowing the truth, that he’d never been intimate with anyone at all. But that was not something he wanted to admit in front of these men, not in front of John. Sherlock was sure John already knew. But at this point, it was best for him to not realize who Sherlock was, he needed to remain Anders.

John came and took the bag to a small dresser with 8 drawers near Sherlock’s couch. It was obvious that each man had his own drawer. John opened an empty one on the top and began laying out Sherlock’s clothes. Sherlock smiled. John had always been very meticulous, preferring everything in order despite the look of their flat at Baker Street. It was one of the few things Sherlock could still see in John. Sherlock was truly torn between wanting John to realize who he was, and wanting to keep himself hidden. If John recognized Sherlock before the bust, then it could all go wrong. He checked his watch 27 minutes, how could he buy 27 more minutes. John was finishing unpacking. If he could start a conversation, get more of an orientation, schedule, something… he had to do something. “So is there a rotation for him too?”

‘’No, we bid for him. There are two options, I’m sure you can figure out what they are. Bidding starts at a pence for each. That’s how he works off his debt.” Sherlock shouldn’t have asked… he didn’t want to know.

“So I have shower rotation at 6.”

“New people always get 6, you have 10 minutes. Leave any clothes you’d like washed during the day on the floor, he’ll get it.”

“What about meals?”

“He always cooks, and cleans, you could leave this flat in any state you’d like, and it will be spotless when we return. One of the best investments I’ve ever made really.” Sherlock knew he couldn’t react. They didn’t know who he was, or who John was to him. He couldn’t seem offended. “We really have a very nice, cushy, deal here. I can see in your eyes that this horrifies and offends you. You’ll come to appreciate it eventually.”

“I’m just not used to all this.”

“You shouldn’t be. But in time, it’ll become second nature to you. It has to most of these men. Most of them come from similar backgrounds, lost wife, lost job, nowhere to turn, no way to repay what they owe. Now look at them. They’re happier here than they would have been out on the street. And if we’re honest with eachother, that’s where you were headed. Well, there or a grave.” This was not the same person Sherlock had met with in the casino. The man he had met was the front of the organization, the man who lured people in. The man sitting with him now was the man who kept them there.  “In time you will understand. And you will learn to like it here. Just remember, the man over there” he motioned to John “serves as a warning for those who think its OK to run out on any obligations. He’s a lucky one. He’s the one I let live.” Sherlock noticed Erik touch his back right above his trousers.

“Why let him live?”

“I know this man. And some day he’s going to make a fine bargaining chip. There are people out there who would do anything to have the companion of Sherlock Holmes as his slave. You could say I’m simply training him.”

Sherlock froze at the sound of his name. “Sherlock Holmes, the dead detective?”

“The dead fake detective, yes. This was his live in companion. You know, I had one man who was very interested in him. Moran I think his name was. He said he was sure Sherlock Holmes was alive, and after him. He wanted him as insurance. He wouldn’t pay my price, and I haven’t heard from him since. But it’s only a matter of time. He was rather intent. Said he had big plans for him.”

Sherlock could see John. Nothing that was being said appeared to faze him, he simply continued working. He was sure John could hear them. Was he so numb that none of this effected him? “So then you do know him, you know his name?”

“Oh yes, but I forbid it from being used. You see, he’s our property, not our equal. He can’t eat, shower, or use the toilet when we’re around. He sleeps only after we’ve gone to sleep. He’s supposed to wake up before us but we let him slide on that one. If you need him in the morning, just wake him up, if you can. He might be a little too tired from tonight.” The thought of John having to get up and live every day like this, almost killed Sherlock. “So, is there anything else you want to know?” Sherlock shook his head. He knew if he opened his mouth now, he would blow his cover. “Ok. Well, there are a few rules for dealing with this man. Normally, you have 15 minutes with him, if you can’t finish that’s not our problem. Tonight, however, we know there will be nerves and we want to offer you our sincerest welcome. You have 45 minutes, use it wisely. There is no kissing, nuzzling, cuddling, you get in, do your business and you’re done.” Sherlock felt sick. The way this man was talking about John, his John, as though he was nothing more than an object to be used and discarded.

By this time, John was standing in front of Sherlock. He had empty plates he was taking from the men. Sherlock handed his and muttered a thanks. John paused before nodding his head slightly. “There  _really_  is no need to thank him. It’s he who should thank us.” Erik said, clearly enjoying the power he had over John, who simply took the dishes to the kitchen and began washing them.

David joined them and began discussing tomorrow. Sherlock let them talk, not trusting himself to speak. He had perfected his ‘genuinely listening’ face and was wearing it as they spoke. Sherlock knew this was what Mycroft and Lestrade had wanted. He stayed as still and quiet as he could to ensure the recording would have a good quality.

“Get back here!” Erik shouted as he stood up and motioned for Sherlock to join him by the bed at the far end of the flat. Sherlock hadn’t realized they were done speaking. He scrambled to follow Erik noticing a small bulge in Erik’s back near the hem of his trousers. John walked slowly to stand in front of Sherlock. His eyes were still downcast, never looking above Sherlock’s knee.  _Look at me_ , Sherlock thought.  _Just look at me._  “Are you ready?”

Sherlock, noticing that they were about as far away from the entrance as possible, realized this put them at an advantage when the raid would start. He rubbed his left wrist with his right hand, trying to pass it off as nerves instead of what he was really doing. “It sounds like Christmas has come early.”

Erik, not knowing what had been said whistled to the men. “Looks like our first timer ready to go.” Sherlock hadn’t known what to expect in all of this, but he had hoped that the raid would start the moment the word had been spoken. He began to doubt himself. Was it the right word? Could they even hear him? He had John. He could protect him when they entered.

“What do I do?” he stammered more to himself than to Erik or John.

Without needing to say anything else, John put his hand softly against Sherlock’s chest. The act of tenderness caught him off guard. John began unbuttoned the jacket slowly and slid it off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor. His fingers traced down Sherlock’s body until they reached the hem of his trousers. He untucked the shirt before going back up to the top to unbutton it. Sherlock’s breath was shortening the further along John went and for a moment Sherlock forgot they weren’t alone. John went to remove the shirt as well, but Sherlock grabbed his hands to stop him. Sherlock’s back still bore the scars of his time away. The last thing he needed now was the reminder of those events. John pulled his hands away quickly and Sherlock remembered that they were injured. John put his hand against Sherlock’s body again and sank to his knees in front of him trailing his hand from his chest, down his stomach, around to his hips, and down the backs of his legs. Sherlock felt a flush come into his cheeks as he took a deep breath trying to hide his emotions. He felt John’s hands run up his legs. Sherlock looked down at the top of his head. John moved his head so that his face was almost pressed against Sherlock’s groin. He didn’t know what to do with his hands other than force himself to keep them by his side. He knew if he moved his hands to touch John he would push him off, to stop him. He needed to stop him. One of John’s hands trailed around to the front of Sherlock’s trousers and was reaching for the zipper. Sherlock took a deep breath as he felt John’s hand brush against his cock through his trousers. He had to stop this. His brain was suddenly unfocused, and he could barely remember the word. “Father Christmas.” Sherlock heard himself mutter as he looked up trying to bring himself under control. Still nothing. Where was Mycroft? Was he using the right word?

Erik was laughing behind him. “Already? Make sure you tell him what you want. If you don’t want someone eager, he can play that part too. His reluctance is almost better than this, very natural. I’d suggest trying that next time.”

That was enough to snap Sherlock out of it. John wasn’t doing this because he wanted to, he was supposed to seem eager. Sherlock looked back down and could see the trembling of John’s hands and how unsteady he appeared to be, he could read the reason why he moved as slow as he did. John didn’t want him. Of course he didn’t. And Sherlock, he was forced to remind himself, didn’t want John. “What must Christmas be like here?” Sherlock tried again.

There was a deafening crash behind him. Men were shouting. John dropped to the floor and curled in a ball on his side, his whole body shaking and whimpering in an instant. Sherlock dropped down instinctively to cover him, to protect him. Instead, John began flailing underneath him, scratching and fighting to get away. He opened his mouth, but only grunting noises could be heard the longer he struggled. Sherlock knew John didn’t understand what was going on and the sounds of the other men shouting was almost deafening. Suddenly, it felt as though John was being yanked from underneath him. Sherlock looked up to see Erik, hiding behind the bed out of sight of the invaders, pulling on the chain that was around John’s leg. There was a gun in his hand. Sherlock knew instantly that this had been what was tucked in the waistband of his trousers. John whimpered again as he continued to claw at the floor, Sherlock, anything he could get his hands on to stay away from Erik. Sherlock kept his weight on him knowing Erik wanted to use John as a hostage. Shots were fired from Erik’s gun just over Sherlock’s head as they hit two of the intruders trying to approach them. The only thing he could do was hold his friend. He looked back to Erik to see he had his gun trained on John. Sherlock rolled over enough to put his body between John and the gun, while still clinging to his frantic friend. He had come all this way. He needed to keep John safe. He had to get John through this.

Another shot went off, and Sherlock braced for impact but felt nothing. Sherlock looked down at John, who didn’t appear to have been hit. Even now, John still wouldn’t look up. “It’s ok,” Sherlock whispered as he ran his hand through John’s hair, trying to calm him. “It’s ok. Were you hit? Please talk to me. Please.” John said nothing, still shaking. “It’s ok. It’s ok.” He kept saying. He hoped John would recognize Sherlock’s voice. “You’re going home. We’re going home.” He had imagined seeing John a million different times. He had always imagined what he would say, but sitting here in this place under these circumstances, everything he wanted to say wasn’t right. The only thing he could do was assure his friend that it was over. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He felt people try to pull him from John. People were talking to him, but he refused to leave John. How could he let him go, when he had finally just found him? He heard someone talking to him, recognized the voice, but didn’t care. The only thing that mattered now was John. Sherlock just wanted him to know he was safe again. Suddenly, John stopped moving, he grew heavier in Sherlock’s arms. He felt hands dragging him away from John. The only thing keeping him from kicking and fighting was the fear that he felt when John had gone limp. It was a crippling fear, and once he could see John completely, he realized that he appeared to be dead. His body was still and pale. Sherlock couldn’t even see him breathing. He heard someone still talking to him, but all he could see was John. He had to get back to John. He tried to fight against the hands that held him. He saw other people surrounding his John and he yelled for them to leave him alone.

It wasn’t until Sherlock’s view was blocked and he felt the sting of someone slapping him that Sherlock came back to himself. Lestrade stood before him, he was saying something, but Sherlock just saw his mouth move. He couldn’t make himself listen to the words coming out of his mouth. “Sherlock! Sherlock! Do you hear me? Everything’s fine. Everyone’s fine, but you need to let us take care of him.”

“John?”

“Yes, we’re trying to take care of John. Ok? But we’ve got to take him to hospital. He’s got to be treated. Do you understand?” Sherlock nodded. “Ok. Good. Now you need to leave.”

“No, I’m going with John.”

“Sherlock you can’t. Everyone knows you’re here now. They know your back. These men will have to take you, ok? They have to take you into custody. Do you understand Sherlock? Mycroft is going to be there. Don’t say anything to anyone. Do you understand?” Sherlock nodded. He looked back to John. Molly was kneeling over him, shouting orders. _Why was Molly there? Molly worked at the morgue. John was dead._  Sherlock heard someone screaming out John’s name. It wasn’t until he was dragged from the room that he realized it was him.

Someone was talking to him but all he could hear was the moans and screams that still echoed as if John was with him. He was in a car, but he couldn’t care about that, all he cared about was how pale John was. He was sitting in a room but the only thing that mattered was the way John’s body lay, lifeless on the floor.

“Sherlock!” a voice snapped him out. He was sitting in a room across from Mycroft. He looked around.

“John? Where is he?”

“Sherlock, he is fine! Ok? I’m not going to say it again.” Mycroft said.

“Why was Molly there?”

“She volunteered. She thought it would be best if someone he recognized was there.”

“That could have been me!”

“Do you know where you are right now? You are in jail!” Sherlock really looked around. He had been in this room many times, visiting potential clients who wanted him to clear their name, but never on the other side of the table. “This is Johann Ellison.” Sherlock followed Mycroft’s gesture to the man sitting beside him. “He is your barrister.” Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft beat him. “If you mention John, I will take this very expensive barrister that I have hired for you and we will leave you here.” Sherlock shut his mouth. “Right now, Lestrade and Molly are taking care of John. Johann and I are taking care of you, if that's alright with you.”

“Our first order of business is to try to get you released on bail, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock looked at the man. He looked like a Johann. He was blonde and fair. Sherlock realized that with the dye, they had the same colour hair. He was about as tall as Sherlock with a similar build. They looked quite similar. Sherlock wanted to deduce him, but part of him just didn’t care. He looked back at his brother.

“When can I leave?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes, first we need to have you go before the judge and see if we can get you released on bail while waiting for your hearing. If the judge grants bail you will be released to the custody of your brother, and can go home.”

“Yes, bail. That sounds good. Let’s do that.”

“It’s not as easy as all that.” Johann said. “The fact that you’ve been presumed dead for 2 years, living out of the country and on the move, partnered with the fact that your brother is a high ranking government official who facilitated your 2 year absence will not go well for you. If I may say, with your reputation it would be best if you were silent during the bail hearing.”

Mycroft scoffed. “Do you know how difficult that will be for my brother?”

“Mycroft, this will be your brother’s best chance.”

“He was doing government sanctioned work. Does that count for nothing?”

“It will count for a small something.”

Sherlock stood up from his chair and began to pace. “This is torture. You can’t keep me here.” He stated petulantly. The barrister looked at Mycroft who shook his head.

“Sherlock, we are not keeping you here. The police force is-.”

“And you are the government. You outrank them all combined. Surely you can do something.”

“Unfortunately in matters like these, my hands are tied. In this case, it is about more than you and I. At this moment, this is about everything you left behind, starting with your reputation and cases.”

“Oh, this is about the work I left you? How long do I have to be back before I can stop cleaning up the messes you made in my name?”

Mycroft gritted his teeth. “Sherlock, there are some things that even I cannot persuade people to believe. Your innocence is one of them. Now, sit down!”

Sherlock grabbed his chair, dragging it several feet from Johann and Mycroft before sitting down. He listened as they discussed Sherlock’s options. Sherlock didn’t hear a single word. Although he couldn’t say it, his thoughts were with John. It didn’t matter to him how he got home, he just had to return. He wanted to be there as John began his life again and recovered from this horrible event. He just wanted to let John know how sorry he was that this had happened. That he would be there to walk John through every step of the way. Before he knew it, Johann and Mycroft had left and he had been escorted back to his cell. It reminded him of the flat that they had just left. He couldn’t imagine living there for a year as John had lived in that prison, chained and shackled, abused and hated for a year.

As he sat alone, there was a sudden desire Sherlock hadn’t felt of in years. The endless moving, the constant working, the friendship he had forged with John had been enough for it to fade. But now, he didn’t have any of it to distract him. Sherlock was alone with his thoughts, and he needed something to dull them. Normally, he preferred it that way, but his thoughts wouldn’t leave the few moments he had spent with John in the flat. He wished he could delete them, but it was the one thing he would never allow himself to forget. He knew that he owed it to John. He would have to make amends for the pain he caused, and he never wanted to forget what he had done to his friend, to the person who had saved his life, and whose life he had saved. The only thing Sherlock could think was how he could repay John for this horrible thing he had done. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! Almost 2,000 hits and 100 kudos? THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *mwah*
> 
> Now, for some sad news. I may not be able to post too much during the month of March as I work in a popular Spring Break hotel and I am expected to work 15 hour days, 6 days a week to help our desk and reservations staff. :-(  
> The next couple of chapters are short so... I'll do my best to post once a week, but no promises.
> 
> And... I apologize for how badly I butcher anything regarding law in general. I'm pulling most of my knowledge from "Law & Order: UK" and whatever I want to happen as I am manipulating it to work around the story.
> 
> Oops... I accidentally deleted this chapter. Sorry. Fortunately, I have a back up word document (other wise I'd be sobbing).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's bail hearing

Sherlock paced about his cell. He had always assumed if he had to sit in a prison his mind would keep him busy. He could sort through his mind palace, work through some unsolved cases, start writing a book. Instead, he spent his entire time reliving the past 24 hours. Particularly the few stolen moments he had recently spent with John, however brief. Even if it was a John who didn't know him, wouldn't look at him, couldn't speak with him. Although Sherlock knew it had to be that way, he still couldn't accept what had happened to John. And the knowledge that the only moments he had spent with John in two years had to be shared in that place and in that way appalled him. He hoped John never knew it had been Sherlock there. He didn't want to be associated with that place, those people, or the acts he was forced to perform.

Sherlock's bail hearing was scheduled for the next day.  He was ushered into the dock quickly. The room was full of people he had never seen, mostly reporters who had shown to report if it was true that Sherlock was still alive. As his hearing began he reminded himself he needed to stay quiet and allow his barrister do the talking. 

"Mister Holmes is here under suspicion of committing 13 counts of obstruction of justice, 3 counts of murder, 2 counts of kidnapping, 5 counts of home invasion, and 4 counts of assault. How does your client plead?"

"My client pleads 'not guilty' My Lord."

"Very well. I will hear arguments regarding bail."

“We request remand, My Lord. We consider this man to be a flight risk.” The barrister for the Crown argued. “Mr. Holmes has been on the run for 2 years following the truth about his connection to Richard Brook becoming public knowledge.”

“During his absence he was doing work for his brother and by extension the Government,” Johann argued. “Yes, it took him from the country for several years, and yes he did fake is death. But he has returned of his own free will, and has since assisted in the capture of a local gang. If he were to be released on bail he would be under the supervision of his brother, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Where is Mycroft Holmes? Is he present?” The judge asked.

“I am, My Lord.” Mycroft said as he stood.

“Approach." Mycroft stepped towards the Magistrate. "May I ask about your brother work for the Government?”

“Unfortunately, in the interest of security I cannot divulge everything. However, I can say that he was instrumental in taking down a criminal and terrorist organization.”

“May I ask to whom the organization belonged?”

“Jim Moriarty.”

The entire courtroom filled with whispers. Sherlock had been warned that the name Moriarty was still seen as his creation, but the reaction of everyone in the courtroom stunned him. He noticed even the judge had narrowed his eyes.

“Moriarty appears to conveniently pop up around you Holmes boys. In this court, you will refrain from slandering the name of the late Richard Brook.”

“Actually,” Mycroft stepped closer to the judge. “I have something of interest regarding the late Richard Brook, as you call him. I believe I asked you to bring something today." Mycroft said as he turned to the Crown Prosecutor. "Something I gave the CPS two years ago for safe keeping. Something I and your superiors signed in the presence of a notary before I turned it over for safe keeping. Did you bring it with you?”

The barrister opened his mouth for a moment before answering. “Yes.”

“Would you care to open that today in the presence of these witnesses?”

The barrister pulled out a safe deposit box. He took a key from his pocket and held it out in his opened hand as Mycroft removed a key from his wallet. He also placed his on his opened palm for the barrister to see, and together they opened the box. Inside was a cell phone, Sherlock’s phone. Mycroft stepped back so the Crown Prosecutor could hand it to the Bailiff to pass to the judge. "There will only be one recording. Play it, if you wouldn't mind.” Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock, who hadn’t been expecting this sat forward in his chair as the song “Staying Alive” began to echo in the courtroom. He assumed it had been lost, unaware that his brother had plucked the phone from the rooftop. He was pleased to see that Mycroft had taken care to prevent anyone from believing he had tampered with the recording. The whole room was silent as they listened to the conversation between Sherlock and Moriarty. They listened as Moriarty admitted he created Richard Brook. They listened as he confessed how he had broken into the bank, prison, and Tower. And while this wouldn't clear Sherlock’s name for everything, it would help prove his innocence regarding Moriarty. There were audible gasps as they heard the gunshot which took Moriarty's life. Unfortunately, the recording didn't stop. Sherlock hadn't remembered that he had allowed it to continue past Moriarty's suicide. Suddenly he heard the phone ring. Sherlock felt his breath catch knowing what was coming next. It was the first time in two years that he heard John’s voice, but the last thing he wanted was to hear the pain it held as he was forced to relive the worst moment of his life. It was exactly as he remembered; every crack of pain, every broken word, every word spoken through tears. How was it possible that out of all the conversations they had over the time of their friendship, the only one recorded forever was them saying goodbye. Sherlock had hoped the recording would end when he had thrown the phone. Instead they heard it clatter a few moments before John called out Sherlock’s name. John hadn't hung up the phone. They heard as John was knocked to the ground, the sound of him hurrying to Sherlock's side, begging to be let through, John calling Sherlock his friend, then silence. The judge had turned off the recording.

“I think I’ve heard enough. I am releasing Sherlock into his brother's custody. Mycroft I charge you with the care of this man. If he fails to appear in my court for any reason, I will personally make a visit to your residence and have you both placed under arrest.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Bail is set at £50,000.”

Sherlock was taken back to his cell for only a moment before his brother had posted his bail. Mycroft waited while Sherlock was released into his custody. “Now may I see John?” Sherlock asked as they left.

“Yes, now you may see John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little chapter because I didn't get anything posted last weekend. Hopefully... there will be another new one in a few days.  
> And sorry again if I've misrepresented (or downright butchered) the British legal system....


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to 221B

By the time they left the courthouse visiting hours at the hospital were over. Mycroft told Sherlock that John would be resting, another day wouldn’t change anything. They returned to Baker Street where Molly met them to return Sherlock’s hair to his natural color. She worked in silence after several failed attempts at engaging him in conversation. When his hair was corrected, Sherlock went to his room, ignoring the group that had gathered in the living room of his flat. He wouldn’t sleep; he simply wanted to be alone to think in an environment more conducive to his thoughts than his cell had been.

Sherlock could hear the others talking, their hushed whispers did nothing to truly silence their words. He perked up at the sound of John’s name. He stepped to the door and listened. No one mentioned John’s medical status in his presence. He couldn’t comprehend the cause to keep it silent. It was necessary to know the details of his condition if he would see him tomorrow.

“They still haven’t woken him up?” Lestrade asked.

“No, they’re trying to stabilize him. I don’t know how he survived as long as he did,” Molly replied.

“How long will they keep him in the induced coma?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“It’s day to day for now. They’re monitoring his vitals, but they’re still so low. In my opinion, he doesn’t seem willing to fight.” Molly hesitated. “I was speaking with his doctors, and they told me something… disturbing. Apparently, at 3:20, every night he relives something. No matter how much sedatives they pump into him, he always has some kind of reaction, mostly screaming and fighting.”

“Makes you wonder what happened,” Lestrade whispered. “From what we saw it looked like a normal flat, given the circumstances.”

“There wouldn’t need to be anything out of the ordinary. Not for the psychological torture.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock had stopped breathing. He needed to hear everything.

“How is he doing besides his hands, malnourishment, and mental state?” Mycroft asked.

“He’s got some infections. The chain used around his leg had rust on it, a bit got into his blood stream. Honestly, though… he should be sicker. How he survived, it’s impossible to say.”

“Do you think he knew someone was coming?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“I don’t see how. No one would have been able to tell him, and even then he wouldn’t have known longer than… a day or two.” Lestrade answered.

“He was fighting for months,” Molly  inserted. “He shouldn’t have been able to survive, and the fact that he’s in the hospital is amazing.”

“What have you found out about the men who had him?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “Surely you know something.”

“They’re not talking.” Mycroft said. “They’re terrified of their leader, even now. I don’t think we’ll get many answers from John either.”

“And Stephen?” Lestrade asked.

“He’s silent as well. He is currently under protective custody, but he seems less reluctant to help now that the operation is over.”

“I still don’t understand how John got into that position. How did we not find him before this?” Mrs. Hudson voice was breaking.

Sherlock felt his anger rising. Had they been able to help John return to a normal life after his death, none of this would have happened. John would have moved on with his life and Sherlock would have been able to return to him and pick up where they left off. But it didn’t appear as though that would ever be the case. Because Sherlock would not be returning to his John; the one he had befriended, the one he had been forced to leave to save. Instead, he was returning to a John he didn’t know how to help. This John was someone Sherlock firmly believed would hate him. How could he not? Sherlock had faked his death, lied to his friend, and left him alone for two years. He had forced John into a life that only brought hum pain and misery, and it was Sherlock’s fault.

He heard the others finish their conversation and say good night. Sherlock stayed up with his thoughts.He knew Mycroft would have to stay in the flat, sleeping in John’s room perhaps. During the night Sherlock got up to wander about the flat.

He almost tripped over two bodies asleep on his floor amid blankets and pillows. Mycroft was dressed in only his vest and pants, while Lestrade was stripped down to his boxers. The sheets were pushed down past their knees. Mycroft slept on his back, his head facing away from Lestrade who was curled around his right side. Mycroft held one of Lestrade’s hand against his chest with both of his.

Sherlock watched them sleep for a moment. They seemed so peaceful. While Sherlock normally objected to anything to do with peace, he found himself wanting the same thing Mycroft had with Lestrade. The same thing he was sure Molly and Harry had as well. It was the same thing John obviously wanted, with all the dating he had done in the past. Now Sherlock, after having two years of his life robbed from him by his brother, could have the life he wanted again. He realized what he wanted, more than anything, was a moment like this; a moment of peace that he could share with someone.

Sherlock noticed Mycroft stir. He stepped into the shadows, not wanting his brother to know he was watching them. He expected Mycroft to get up as he had done when they were younger. Once Mycroft woke he never went back to sleep. Sherlock was the same way. Instead Mycroft turned his head and focused on Lestrade. He bowed his head, and Sherlock could tell that he was placing a kiss on Lestrade’s forehead. It was an act he did not expect to come from his brother. He was sure they must share some intimacies, but Mycroft didn’t seem the kind to allow himself to be this open, transparent, and ungraded around another person. Mycroft, still holding Lestrade’s hand with his left, coiled his right arm under Lestrade and pulled him closer. He placed his chin on the top of Lestrade’s head. Lestrade stirred.

“What time is it?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Go back to sleep then.” Lestrade pressed a kiss against Mycroft’s chest.

“I can’t.”

“Sherlock?”

“I’m afraid for him. I know how tomorrow will turn out if he sees John awake.”

“You can’t possibly-“

“I can tell you it won’t end well. It’s not going to be like Sherlock’s imagined. Even if, by some miracle, John is awake tomorrow he’s going to be angry towards Sherlock, or numb from everything that’s happened to him since.”

“You can’t know that.” Lestrade leaned up on his elbow to look at Mycroft.

“In my early career, I sat with people like John. It was for a campaign to raise awareness for people who had been abused. I was to take down their statements." Mycroft shook his head. "Their stories. I didn’t see it as anything more than a job, and I treated it as such.”

“I think it’s hard for anyone to truly understand what it is like for people who lived through this kind of abuse.”

“And now John is one of them. I know my brother he will be cold and clinical; not only tomorrow, but in the days that follow, perhaps for the rest of their lives. That’s if John is willing to see Sherlock.”

“I’m sure he will. He’ll want closure at least.”

“And if he doesn’t? If the only thing that has kept my brother sane and sober for the past two years rejects and despises him. I can see him going down the same path he went down before he met John… and he wouldn’t want to come back from it.”

Sherlock tried to remain motionless through the entire conversation. But he felt his breath get shallow as it became harder for him to breathe. He felt his throat tighten, his mouth dry, and closet his eyes, willing himself to take deep breaths knowing his brother was right. He had already felt the urge to use again. Lestrade took his hand from Mycroft’s grip and placed it against his cheek. “There is nothing we can do now. Just hope, and be there for him when he needs us, like we should have been there for John.” Mycroft nodded. “I told you before, staying awake won’t solve any problems. Go to sleep.”

“You know I can’t without help.”

Lestrade smiled as he placed a soft kiss on Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft wrapped his hand around the back of Lestrade’s head as he deepened the kiss. Sherlock looked away for a moment. “Well that won’t help.” Sherlock heard Lestrade say. He looked back to see Mycroft had laid his head back down. Lestrade was lying on his side curled around Mycroft again. “Close your eyes. Let your body get heavy. Slow your breath.” Sherlock watched as Mycroft obeyed. “That’s right. Just go to sleep.” Lestrade had managed to make his brother fall asleep again. A few moments later, Lestrade joined him. His hand slowly stroking Mycroft’s chest until it stopped, their breathing synchronized.

Sherlock took one last look at them sleeping peacefully again, before turning back to his room. He lay on his bed, straight and stiff as Mycroft had been. He imagined a hand to hold, a body to curl his arm around, a forehead to kiss, someone with whom he could share late night conversations. He found himself going through the actions. He looked down, where his… person would be sleeping. He smiled for the brief moment when his mind conjured an image of John, asleep and peaceful next to him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to the hospital to see John.

Sherlock didn’t sleep that night, which wasn’t unusual for him. But this time it wasn’t because he was thinking on a case. He wasn’t trying to figure out any great mystery of the universe. His mind raced to find an answer to why it had been John’s face he had seen, and why it made him feel happy. When he had pretended to hold someone, he expected to imagine a faceless stranger. Or even Lestrade. After all, it had been him wrapped around his brother in the same position. Surely he wasn’t attracted to John. Not that Sherlock had ever contemplated the label of his sexuality before; after all it was irrelevant to him. When he told people he was married to his work, it wasn’t simply because he loved what he did. It wasn’t because he spent all of his time and energy working. It was because the work he did fulfilled every desire he felt.

It was all Sherlock could do to fight the curiosity he felt, the urge to explore, what had happened last night. Sherlock knew he needed to make this visit about John’s recovery. He was well aware that it would indeed take months before John’s life could return to normal. And today would be Sherlock’s attempt to give John the chance to have the life he deserved. He had always anticipated the conversation he would have with John upon his return would be difficult. But after he realized what had occurred in his absence, Sherlock knew he would have to modify the discussion to reflect the route John’s life had taken.

Sherlock could hear voices from the living room and smell tea and breakfast announcing the arrival of Mrs. Hudson. He steadied himself in his resolve. He knew what needed to be done today, for John. Today had to be about John. Sherlock left his room. Everyone turned and looked at him as he entered the room. Mycroft and Lestrade stood side by side in the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson. Molly was standing in the doorway to the flat speaking on her mobile.

“Are you ready to go?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded.

He watched his brother put a hand on the small of Lestrade’s back as he stepped past him. He had known for some time that the two were in a relationship of some form; yet the intimate nature of it hadn’t been evident to him. Now, however, the signs were all too obvious. They walked side by side, often touching each other, even if just for a moment, lingering glances when they thought no one was looking, but rarely acknowledging the other when someone might be watching.

“Good morning, Sherlock! Harry was up early this morning, so she’s already at the hospital.” Molly said as she hung up and joined them.

“Was that her?” Sherlock asked.

“No, it was work. I’ve taken some time off, but apparently no one can function if I’m not there to hold their hand. Anyway, she said she would meet us there.”

“The car is waiting, if we can continue this conversation while walking. I believe some of us should be capable of doing both.”

“Did you ever meet her?” Molly walked in front of Sherlock as they descended the stairs.

“No.”

“Well, you will soon. She wasn’t a fan of yours, but she said she wants to talk to you about John. I’m sure she’ll want to thank you for finding him. Perhaps you will become friends. How nice that’ll be.”

Sherlock heard himself saying the mantra that was going to help him get through next few hours. “Today is about John.” He noticed Mycroft and Lestrade exchange glances for a moment. Lestrade smiled looking a bit smug.

Mrs. Hudson patted him on the arm. “That’s right dear,” she said. “No matter what happens, you must think of John today.”

The two doors were already opened to the car Mycroft had summoned to carry them all to the hospital. The women enter through the door closest to the front. Sherlock followed them and took a seat next to Molly, allowing Lestrade and Mycroft to sit alone in the back seat. The men were silent almost forgotten by the women sitting in the row ahead, who managed to keep each other entertained by their endless chattering. Sherlock watched London pass by, remembering a lifetime ago when he walked the streets before he had John. He remembered the loneliness, the boredom, the urge to use again standing on every street corner. He set his mouth in a hard line. He would walk these streets again soon, alone.

Before he was even aware that his mind had drifted, he found himself in the hallway of a hospital. Mrs. Hudson had put her arm around his. “Sherlock dear, I know you want to retreat. But stay with us, please.” She whispered to him. He nodded.

They had stopped outside a room, all eyes were on him. He took a deep breath as Mycroft reached for the door handle. He made eye contact with his little brother, who simply nodded. Mycroft opened the door, everyone waiting for Sherlock to enter first.

He stepped into a small, brightly painted room which felt inappropriate for the situation. Although this was a private room for John, the curtains were drawn around the bed. Machines could be heard beeping and wheezing from behind the curtain. Everyone else entered quietly. Sherlock’s heart pounded in his throat just knowing that John lay on the other side of the curtain. The door closed behind them and they heard someone moving on the other side of the room. Molly moved to stand next to Sherlock, her arm looped in his as she walked him forward. They only made it a few steps before a head peaked around the curtain.

“You.”

It was the cruelest accusation Sherlock had heard in his life. He stopped. She came around the curtain fully and, although he had never met her, Sherlock would have been able to pick her out in a crowd. Harry was a bit taller and leaner than her brother. They both had the same blonde hair, only hers was slightly longer coming down to just above her shoulders and flipped out in a playful manner. Their eyes, noses, and the shape of their mouths were identical. And, at this moment, she wore the same expression John often had as he was furious with Sherlock. “So, you must be the famous Sherlock Holmes. The man who is responsible for doing this to my brother.” She accused. Sherlock simply stood there.

“Harry? What are you doing?”

“Shut up Molly, this is between me and him.”

She came around and put her hand on Harry’s arm. “Just let him see your brother. He just wants to see him.” But this plea wouldn’t get anywhere with Harry. Sherlock could tell whatever she had allowed Molly to think, was simply to get him there so she could confront him.

Harry pushed Molly’s hand off as she approached Sherlock. “I have had the opportunity to spend time with my brother stolen from me from the moment he decided to join the army. And every time, every time I think we’re about to reunite, off he goes following Sherlock Holmes… until the one time, Sherlock didn’t take him. Then guess who had to try to pick him up?” She was standing in his face now. “John isn’t the only one who went, I also visited your grave site, and I let you know day after day what I thought of you. I’m almost glad you’re alive so you can hear it. I don’t appreciate what you’ve done to my brother. He’s here in the hospital because of you. If you hadn’t been so selfish and monopolized his time, then he’d have other people to lean on when you died… faked your death, when you lied to my brother! And now, here you come pretending to be all noble as though you’d done some great deed, when you could have told the police where he was when you knew. But no, that’s not clever enough for you. Instead, you had to go off and play amateur hour and head up a sting operation. I’m telling you Sherlock, stay away from my brother this time. I want you to have nothing to do with him. I don’t even want you to see him. I want you to out of this room, now.”

“Harry, this man saved John’s life. We wouldn’t have found him without Sherlock.”

Harry ignored her. “No, this go around I want you to stop and think for once about what’s best for John. Because, let me tell you, it’s not running around playing make believe detective with you. This is the time when he should be reconnecting with his family. He should be getting a life without you. Move on.”

It was clear Harry had said her peace. Sherlock had already planned to say good bye to John. He believed it was best, and to hear Harry echo his thoughts made him more sound in his resolve. He wanted John to live a normal life. Sherlock looked towards the curtain where John was in his medically induced coma, just a few feet from him. He conjured the image of John sleeping beside him, of Sherlock kissing his forehead, of Sherlock holding John close to him. He would leave that image here. He would delete that moment from his mind and leave it, like a gift to John that he might have that with someone who deserved it more than Sherlock. If Sherlock was less selfish, he might delete every memory of John, wipe the slate clean and move forward. But he would never be able to forget the man asleep just out of his reach. The man he would keep out of reach to protect.

“You can’t forbid him from seeing John.” Mycroft was arguing.

“Oh, I plan to. I’ll be getting a restraining order.” Harry responded.

“There’s no need to,” Sherlock said. He looked back to Harry. All eyes were on him. For a brief moment, it seemed the resemblance between her and John was too much. “Tell him I said goodbye.” He said as he turned and left.

“Nope.” The way she said it sounded so like John. “He won’t ever know you cared enough to come.” She shouted as the door closed.

Mycroft followed his brother. “Sherlock.”

“No, she’s right. It’s best for John.” Sherlock didn’t miss a step as he continued down the hall.

“I don’t think anyone but John gets to make that decision.”

“Well, he can’t. So I will make that decision for him.”

“Sherlock I know what this is.” Mycroft stepped in front of him. “You are running away. And while there are times when I can condone such actions, this is not one of them. John needs you, now more than ever.” Sherlock stepped around him. “This is a temporary situation, one day he will wake up. You know what he’ll want. I can’t believe that he would choose to not see you.”

“I can’t believe he would choose someone who didn’t even visit him over family.”

“Sherlock, you know he’ll ask for you. He knows your back; the world knows your back.”

“What would I need with him now? He’s damaged.” Sherlock refused to allow his face to be anything more than emotionless. He wouldn’t permit himself to give away his true feelings, that he wanted nothing more than to return to the hospital room. To sit there with John as he slept, to be there when he woke up.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to run away, and sometimes there is nothing wrong with that, but not now. Mummy would be so disappointed to know you were running from someone you could help.”

“How can I help him, Mycroft?” Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face his brother. He could feel his mask slipping and the frustration and anger he felt at leaving John seeped through. “Tell me, how can I help that man in there? What could I ever possibly do for him? I have hurt him beyond all belief. I have ruined him, damaged his career, and now I’m coming between him and family. Apparently, that's supposed to mean something.” His brother narrowed his eyes. “Listen, Mycroft, I know you think I’m running away… and perhaps a part of me is. But, perhaps, it would be in John’s best interest for me to leave and allow for a family to reunite and put away differences. Not to return him to a life spent with nothing more than a business partnership and a friendship born only out of convenience!” Sherlock spat as he turned back around and marched down the hall, leaving Mycroft standing alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock would have been surprised to know that Mycroft had a hint of a smile on his face. Greg and Mrs. Hudson stood outside John's door in time to hear most of the conversation. Greg walked towards Mycroft, while Mrs. Hudson went back into John’s room to help Molly, who was having it out with Harry.

“Is he going to be alright?” Greg asked as he came to stand beside Mycroft.

“Oh he’s going to be just fine.”

Greg turned to look at him. “Are you smiling?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because my brother is in love, and doesn’t even know it.”

“With a man he’s refusing to see… who will soon have a restraining order against him, apparently.”

“I can tie that restraining order up in as much red tape as possible. It might even get lost. Who knows? The British Government is a very disorganized place when it becomes convenient. Either way, John will be awake before that thing gets to any judge.”

“What makes you think that John won’t want the same thing? I’m sure he’ll be angry when he finds out what Sherlock’s done.”

“Have you not noticed, Greg? All the time you spent with the two of them, did you truly never see that John was in love with Sherlock?”

“Infatuation might have been a better term.”

“With the mourning he went through? That was the mourning of a man who lost the chance to say, ‘I love you’ to someone most dear.” Mycroft looked at him and smiled before touching him lightly on the arm and allowing his hand to trail down until it reached Greg’s. Mycroft was rewarded with a gentle squeeze as Greg looked from their hands to his eyes.

“Someone will see.”

“I don’t care. Greg, I-”

“They’re both so stubborn.” Molly came storming from John’s room followed by Mrs. Hudson. “Is it true? Did Sherlock really just leave him?”

“He’s already gone,” Mycroft responded. They had broken away before either Molly or Mrs. Hudson could see. “Unfortunately, when my brother gets this way there’s nothing to be done.”

“I just, I don’t understand. I didn’t realize… I wouldn’t have brought him. She said she wanted to thank Sherlock. I didn’t realize she would go off like that.”

“It’s alright Molly. We’ll just have to wait for John to wake up.”

About that time nurse went into John’s room and ushered Harry out. When she entered the hall, she saw the four people who had come in with Sherlock. The four people she had spent so much time with while they looked after and searched for John. She knew she had angered them and none more so than her lover. She walked towards them, she wanted to explain. Molly grabbed Mrs. Hudson by the arm and began to walk away.

“Come on Molly. Really?” Harry called to her. “You know what the last two years have been like for me. You can’t be shocked that I’m upset.”

Molly turned. “I’d be fine if you were upset. We all are. But John’s back. And no, he’s not the same, he’s not even awake, but at least he’s safe now. And you know we hadn’t found anything, we needed Sherlock. You should be thanking him.”

“I don’t get it. What is this sick hold he has on the five of you? What would Sherlock Holmes ever do for you? But look what you are willing to do for him. Give up your life like Mycroft. Give up your reputation like Lestrade. Reject your family like John. And for what? For a man who will run off and leave you for two years, with nothing saying he’s even alive. He tried to convince you he was dead. But he returns, and you all put on happy faces and forget the past. You’ll be so glad he’s back, praying things will be back to the way they were. But they won’t. Do you think my brother will go back to the way he was before he met Sherlock?”

“Forgive me for saying,” Mycroft interjected. “You didn’t know your brother. Not really. Isn’t that what you’re upset about, the fact that Sherlock came in and took your place? I’m sorry, but I met your brother the day after he met Sherlock. He was not the man that he became, not the man who reached out to you, the man who forgave you. He was the man who’d rather stay with a stranger than with you. The person who reached out to you was who he became after Sherlock. So forgive us if we don’t share your less than stellar opinion of my brother. And yes, you’re right. We are hoping things will return to normal, not only for us, but for your brother as well, because he truly was a better man with Sherlock.”

“Don’t think I’ve not forgotten about you. You knew, didn't you? You couldn’t have given my brother some bit of hope?”

“Do you know why Sherlock did it Miss Watson? Why he jumped? He didn’t just get tired and decide he wanted a holiday. That’s why people run away; it’s not why they fake their death. He did it because the lives of your brother and several others were in danger. They were in the eye of snipers. If Sherlock hadn’t jumped, they would be dead. So, no, I wouldn’t have told him. His life could have still been in danger, and no one will convince me that he wouldn’t have gone looking for my brother. Do you truly think he would have continued on a normal life knowing he could be with Sherlock? Then he would have been in true danger. And if he did have enough sense to stay here, what would he have done if Sherlock hadn’t lived to return? We would have given him hope, only to have it taken away again. I put my brother out there Miss Watson and that was a horrible thing with which to live. And, if I'm honest, it still is. Had anything happened to him, it would have been my fault. He wouldn’t have been able to make the amends he long to, with us, with your brother. And I hope, one day, you’ll be willing to listen to what he has to say when he comes to make those amends with you as well because, despite what you may think, Sherlock really does care for your brother.”

“Then why isn’t he here? Why didn’t he fight?” Harry challenged.

“Because Sherlock wants to give John his best chance at the life he chooses. If John wants to see Sherlock, that’s up to him.”

“My brother will not seek him out. At least not to become friends again. He’ll be too bitter… too angry.”

“He will be, or you are? Because I can see it in your face, how much you want your brother to hate him. But I don’t foresee hate.”

Harry looked furious.  “Come on Molly. Let’s go home,” Harry motioned to her. Molly shook her head. “Come on, your being hysterical. Now come here.” Molly still just shook her head. “Molly, are you really going to not stand by me? Get here now.”

“You’re staying with me, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said to Molly before she turned on Harry putting herself between them. “I don’t abide any type of abuse to those I find most dear. You have insulted one and I let that go, but do not test me and come anywhere near this woman. When you can act appropriately, you may visit her.” She steered Molly down the hall with Mycroft and Lestrade following behind, leaving Harry standing there alone with her anger and her sleeping brother.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nurse came out several minutes later and Harry turned on her. “When will he wake up? I’m ready for him to wake up.”

“At this time, we’re still waiting for him to get a little stronger. We’re continuing the feeding tubes and ventilators, but his vitals are looking better. We still need to monitor for any long term affects from the abuse.

“How many days?”

“A week, perhaps. We really don’t know. It depends on your brother. He did have a good spike a few minutes ago.” The nurse showed Harry the chart. “His vitals went up. Very promising.”

“Thank you.” Harry said in a curt voice noticing when the spike had occurred.

“It would be best if you could replicate those conditions. We would feel more comfortable about waking him up sooner if you did.”

“Unfortunately, it is something we can never do again.”

The nurse simply nodded and left.

Sherlock Holmes. She had sat by his bedside, waiting patiently for the doctors to wake him up. But Sherlock bloody Holmes had been the one to make him better. She didn’t care what she had to do, whose head she had to go over. She would forbid Sherlock from ever seeing her brother again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Baker Street.

The four returned to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson ushered a still distressed Molly into her flat, while Mycroft and Lestrade went upstairs. They found Sherlock sitting at the table cluttered by old case files that Mycroft had pulled out for Sherlock to eventually look over.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked as he and Lestrade walked to the table.

“You took too long, so I called for a taxi. Now, I need the cases on which you weren’t able to clear my name. I’m going to do the job I gave you, since you were unable to while I was away.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He saw the taunt for what it was, Sherlock trying to prove he was fine. If he wanted to delve into the cases to hide from John, Mycroft would oblige. “I don’t remember them all, but I know Lestrade does.”

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table. “Do you always call him Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft responded attempting to sound innocent.

“Then I’ll speak plainly.” Sherlock said turning in his chair to face them. “When you’re in bed together do you still call him Lestrade?”

Mycroft tried not to look at his partner, but he could see out of the corner of his eye that Lestrade’s face registered complete and utter shock. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you’re going to play stupid? That’s fine. I just wondered if you always felt the need to call him Lestrade. He calls you by your first name, but you never say his. It must be a very uncomfortable relationship,” Sherlock looked to Lestrade. “Professional or otherwise.”

They had discussed what to do if someone found out about them. Their plan had been to deny everything, but Mycroft couldn’t hide this from his brother. Then there was Lestrade, who couldn’t keep the look of shock off his face and gave the whole thing up. He looked to Lestrade, who made eye contact for a moment before Mycroft raised his eyebrows and looked back towards Sherlock. “How did you know?” Lestrade asked after receiving the silent approval from Mycroft.

Sherlock smiled. “Couples, no matter how hard they try to hide, are always obvious.” Mycroft smiled a bit, finding irony in his brother’s words. Sherlock and John may not have been a traditional couple, but their feelings certainly were apparent to everyone who saw them together. He decided to file that away to be used when the time came. “Besides,” Sherlock continued. “If you wanted to keep your relationship private, maybe don’t spoon on my floor in the middle of the night.”

Lestrade looked at Mycroft. “Very well. Greg and I are a couple. Do you have a problem with that?”

“I have a problem with the fact that you felt the need to hide it from me. But now it’s out in the open between us.” Sherlock turned back to the papers laid out before him. “Now, which cases am I reviewing?”

Mycroft sat down across the cluttered table while Greg stood beside Sherlock. They had been arranged in chronological order, starting with the oldest. Each file was set before Sherlock with Greg reminding him of the particulars. Most of the time was spent with Sherlock muttering how they were incompetent. Sherlock rattled off the answer to the cases with the words ‘simple’ and ‘obvious’ surrounding them.

“You know Sherlock, they’re not skeptical your work.” Mycroft said, finally fed up after a particularly nasty comment regarding Greg’s intelligence. “They doubt you. It shouldn’t surprise you that they would want to reverse the ruling if they couldn’t question you.”

“Of course they couldn’t question me. I was doing your work!”

“It wasn’t _my_ work Sherlock. Besides, you were more than happy to take the opportunity to play hero.”

Sherlock pushed himself up from the chair to lean over the table and sneer at his brother. “If I was a hero, I would have had a hero’s welcome. Instead I’m here, trying to resolve your mistakes. I would have thought you to be more than capable of handling a few cases. You have the entire government in the palm of your hand. You expect me to believe you couldn’t just cover it up with a flick of your pen?”

“Sherlock, that’s not how the government works.”

‘”That’s how you work. You are the government. I fail to see the problem.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Listen, all that matters now is clearing your name so you can return to a normal life.”

“It’s not going to be the same,” Sherlock looked down.

“Why not?” Mycroft gently prodded.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and Mycroft was sure that whatever he was truly thinking of had just been pushed to the back of his mind. “My name has been ruined. People will always associate me with the lies. What are the chances that I’ll be able to return to solving cases? Who would hire me now?”

“That’s why you need to clear this up. Clear your name.”

“Why will it be different now?”

Lestrade came around to stand beside Mycroft. “Because it would have been different if you had been there. We had to work with what we knew. You’ve seen our reports on the cases. They’re shockingly bare, or they were cases you had taken on independently. I’ll admit, there are some we are still in the unsure how you managed to solve. So, let’s take it case by case and get your name cleared.”

“Clearing my name doesn’t mean we’ll clear yours.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Oh isn’t it? If you’re not hoping I can clear your name, then why help me at all? It can’t all be because you’re in bed with my brother. You want to return to homicide don’t you? You think I can help? One rotten name cannot clean another.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gave Sherlock a warning.

Sherlock was pushing them away. He stood up to his full height at the correction before turning around. Mycroft watched him take a step towards the couch… but stopped for a moment. Sherlock turned back and walked towards his bedroom… and stopped before he reached the hall. He looked towards the door leading downstairs. “You can’t leave.” Mycroft warned before Sherlock could take another step. Mycroft watched his little brother debate where to go next. He reminded Mycroft of the men he watched before questioning. The men with guilt who wandered to keep their mind occupied, who couldn’t stand looking at the same walls for another minute. Sherlock took a deep breath before he walked out the door, and went upstairs. Mycroft waited until he heard the door slam before turning to Lestrade with triumph in his eyes.

“What was that all about?” Greg asked.

“This is the first time Sherlock has gone into John’s room since he’s been back.”

“Are you planning something?”

Mycroft simply smiled. “I don’t know what you mean.” He turned around and began organizing the loose papers on the table. Greg smiled as he narrowed his eyes for a moment. It had always bothered him when his ex-wife had made secret plans. But with Mycroft, Greg felt at peace knowing that he had plans and didn’t even mind not knowing them. He had witnessed these plans play out recently, and each time they were done so with such precision that any error had already been accounted for ahead of time. Perhaps it was a power thing, Mycroft was a powerful person and his job required him to make such preparations. Greg watched him for a few moments before turning on the telly and moving to the couch. He occasionally glanced at Mycroft as he worked. Eventually Mycroft joined him on the couch. Greg instantly leaned against him, overcome with the excitement that someone else in the world knew about the two of them. They could let their guard down, act like a real couple around Sherlock.

Greg had put his hand on Mycroft’s knee and was now slowly running it up and down the top of his leg, working to the inside of his thigh. He felt Mycroft stiffen his back and softly clear his throat, a sign that he was becoming aroused. Greg continued the slow brushing of his hand against his partner’s thigh. He felt Mycroft sink into the couch and try to force himself closer to Greg’s hand, only to find it move just out of reach every time. Greg smiled as Mycroft cleared his throat again, louder this time. He slowed his hand to a crawl.

Mycroft, deciding it was his turn to do the teasing, grabbed Greg’s hair and used it to tilt his partner’s head back almost into his lap. He leaned his head down until his lips hovered just above Greg’s. Mycroft’s tongue darted out and licked Greg’s lips softly. He leaned his head up to get closer to Mycroft, instead Greg felt a tug on his hair and let out a loud moan at the sensation that went straight to his cock. He tried to move his head, but Mycroft had a firm grip and only succeeded in feeling a string of stern tugs which each earned a moan. Greg finally let out a pleading whimper as he bit his lip and arched his back.  

The sight and sound of his lover was enough for Mycroft. He closed the gap slowly until their lips met. The kiss was slow… heated… passionate. Greg’s hands came up to cup the back of Mycroft’s head as his teeth nipped at Greg’s lips. Mycroft let go of his hair as he trailed his fingers down Greg’s neck.

Greg needed more. He pulled away from Mycroft and turned to face him. He swung a leg over Mycroft and settled on his lap. Mycroft groaned as he felt Greg’s bulge press against his stomach, as his own cock strained against his trousers wanting to be buried in that beautiful arse just above him. Greg grabbed him by the lapels of his suit and crushed their lips together. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s back and brought his hands up to run through his hair. Their tongues darted back and forth, their teeth nipping at the other’s lips and occasionally capturing the other’s tongue and sucking on it until the other would moan. Greg started grinding against him. Mycroft threw his head back groaning and Greg leaned his head down to kiss his neck as one of Mycroft’s hands began clawing at his back. Greg let out a deep growl at the sensation and let his hands slowly trail down to the zipper of Mycroft’s trousers. He lowered it and reached his hand in, feeling his lover’s hard cock. He slid it out and began to rub his hand up and down its length as his mouth continued to be occupied with Mycroft’s neck. He could taste the sweat as Mycroft began rocking his hips. He tugged at Greg’s hair again causing Greg to let out a loud moan and reward Mycroft with a bite against the soft skin where his shoulder met his neck. Mycroft’s hands scratched down Greg’s back until they reached the waistband of his trousers. He lowered them under the material until he was cupping Greg’s arse cheeks. He used them to change the pattern of the grinding more to his liking. He took his finger and circled the ring of muscle at Greg’s entrance. Greg dropped his head against Mycroft’s shoulder, he was panting and muttering, “Mycroft, oh god, Mycroft.” Mycroft kissed Greg’s cheek, trying to get to his mouth so he could taste his name on his lover’s lips.

Suddenly, Mycroft stopped, completely still. Greg sat up, aware something was wrong. “Shh,” Mycroft whispered. Greg could hear it too. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were talking as they came up the stairs. They quickly untangled themselves as the voices grew louder. Greg jumped up, adjusting himself as sat down at the table putting his head down on an open case file. Mycroft grabbed a nearby newspaper, adjusted his suit, and tried to return his still hard cock to his trousers. He let out a hiss as he zipped himself up and opened the paper setting some of the pages across his lap. He looked up to see Greg already had slowed his breathing to make it appear as though he were asleep. It was always his initial reaction when they anticipated getting caught.

“Oh, I thought Sherlock was with you,” Mrs. Hudson said as she entered the flat. She wandered to the TV and shut it off.

“He was. He needed a break.” Mycroft answered calmly.

Lestrade lifted his head from the table. He looked around at the others, acting surprised that they were there. He looked at his watch and rubbed his face with his hands. Mycroft fought the urge to narrow his eyes at his partner. Molly sat in a chair next to Lestrade. “How are you?” He asked, putting his hand on hers comfortingly.

“I’m so angry at her. I really didn’t think she’d be this way. I would have thought she’d be so happy to have John back that… I don’t know.”

“There are going to be people who aren’t happy he’s back.” Lestrade said. “We’re the ones he was closest to. It’s only natural that we would be excited about his return. Not everyone will feel that way.”

“I know,” Molly said. “Harry knows what Sherlock’s meant to us. What he meant to John. And that she’d decide that he can’t see him… it’s not right by John.”

“She’s doing what she feels is right by her brother,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock has accepted it.”

“Probably because he feels he has no other choice. You know what he’s like when it comes to John. He’ll do the noble thing, but whine and pout about it. If I could get Harry to agree to let Sherlock see him, or I can get her away from John long enough for Sherlock to sneak in there-”

“He won’t go see him.” Mycroft interrupted.

“But if Harry’s not there, surely he will. It’ll be different. Harry won’t be there to stop him.”

“It doesn’t matter. Because now Sherlock’s gotten in his head that the best thing to do is leave him alone.”

“But it’s not.”

“Perhaps. Harry is well within her right to refuse Sherlock, and we have to respect her wishes. Nothing any of us can say will change her view on the matter… nor is it our place to do so. Now, should she attempt to place a restraining order against him, that we can fight. But let’s allow Harry do what she feels is best for her brother.”

“Would you do this to Sherlock? I can’t believe that anyone who would truly love their brother would force them to stay apart.”

The room was silent for a moment as the words settled. “I kept him away from John for two years for what I believe to have been for the greater good. And while I don’t think it was the best thing for Sherlock, and certainly not for John, perhaps something good may come from it yet.”

Mrs. Hudson had gone to the kitchen during this conversation. She returned with a pot of tea and some biscuits. She placed the tray on the table and patted Lestrade’s head. “You should eat. Some of you are looking a little… unwell.” Mycroft and Greg avoided eye contact. “I think I’ll take some to Sherlock.” She picked up a biscuit and cup and went towards Sherlock’s room.

“He’s not in there.” Mycroft said.

She turned around. “Where is he?”

“He went upstairs.”

“Really? Well, it’s about time.” She said as she sat down next to Mycroft.

“Aren’t you going to take it to him?” Lestrade asked.

“If he’s hungry, he can get it himself. I think this is a good sign that he’s in there. Perhaps it means he’s ready to come to terms with everything.”

“You know Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said. “You are an astonishingly observant woman.”

“Why thank you. Am I almost worthy of being a Holmes?”

“We’ll consider you an honorary Holmes.”

She beamed up at him at this compliment. “It’s about time you gave someone else your last name. You boys are notoriously stingy with it.” Mycroft laughed and Lestrade did his best to hide a smile himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter posted.  
> I am trying to get back to my writing schedule, so there should be a new chapter up next week.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally goes into John's room.

Sherlock hadn’t known where else to go. He had grown tired of the flat, even before he had gone undercover to find John. He longed to walk about London but, as his brother had pointed out, he wasn’t permitted to go outside alone due to the terms of his parole. And what was the point of going out if he was chaperoned by one of his four handlers? If he couldn't go out, he would simply go up instead.

He had done his best to avoid entering John’s room, even when it was occupied. But now, he found himself there quite by choice. He stood with his back to the door for a moment looking around the room. It was silent, clearly undisturbed since John had gone missing. The thick layer of dust was a clear indicator that no one had disturbed the room for months. The room smelt stale and Sherlock had an eerie feeling that his very presence in the room was similar to a barbarian desecrating a holy site. But there was nothing extraordinary about the room or its contents. The window across the room from where Sherlock stood had a traditional looking armchair chair beside it, a stack of old medical journals could be seen stacked on the floor to the right. For a moment Sherlock could picture John sitting there reading. On the wall to Sherlock’s left was a dresser with a few items sitting atop. Across from it was John’s queen sized bed and a night stand to it’s right. Almost directly to Sherlock’s right was a thin, tall bookcase. The empty space was broken up by a few pieces of art, too small for the walls on which they hung. Sherlock wandered about looking for some sign that the surfaces had once held items of significance, but there were no scratches, no places on the wood that were darker than the rest from lack of light exposure, no sign that the dust was anything other than an even layer. Sherlock’s own room was also empty in comparison to the rest of the flat since most of his belongings resided in the living room or kitchen. But John’s room was tidy, and it annoyed Sherlock. How could he find anything if it was all hidden away. Sherlock opened drawers, looked under and behind furniture, when a realization hit him. It wasn’t that John kept his room neat, he didn’t have any personal possessions. His wardrobe and dresser only housed clothes. The bedside table empty, except for a notebook here and some receipts. There were no knickknacks or mementoes laying around. Had he always lived like this? Or was this a more recent arrangement to support his habits?

Sherlock became more desperate to find something of John’s as he went through his old flat mate’s possessions. He knew John wasn’t a sentimental person, so it really didn’t surprise him that there weren’t a lot of trinkets lying around, but he assumed there would be some things. By this time he had reached the bookshelf. Sherlock almost passed it by, unimpressed by the contents, when he stopped. He got down on his knees to look at a series of books on the bottom shelf. Rarely had he seen John read a book that wasn’t on some bestseller list like the rest of his bookcase, so why would he have a three series volume of _Jean-Christophe_ , which appeared to be in its original French? John didn’t speak or read French. Sherlock put his finger to the binding of the center book and nudged it. He smiled, noticing that all three books moved as one. He pulled the books off the shelf noticing the way the books shifted and sounded. It was as he expected, a fake set of books which must hold something special for John to hide it this way. Sherlock set the books down and slowly lifted the front cover. It came up like a lid, the spine of the book unmoving. There were several pages that lay still against the rest of the ‘book’. He slowly turned page after page. Sherlock considered again the chance that the items which had once resided in the book would have been long since sold. The weight could have been the books which housed the items instead of any actual possessions, and the sound it made as he moved the books, could it be because most of the items were no longer there? Would there be anything worth seeing inside anymore? The thought took the fun out of exploring any further. Sherlock closed the lid. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to intrude on his friend’s life. He had been so close, just one page from seeing the remaining treasures John had deemed worthy enough to hide. He picked it up and went to replace it on the shelf when he noticed another item. A folded piece of paper sitting where the book had been, probably fallen out when Sherlock removed them. He picked it up to slide it between the first few pages of the book, when he noticed his name written on the front. Without noticing he did so, he held the books closer to his body as he opened the letter.

_Sherlock,_

_If you are reading this, you have either decided to invade my privacy and rummage about in my items or something has happened to me. I know we never talked about plans incase anything ever did occur, which is strange. We have lived such dangerous lives that we should anticipate the worst, but we still believe our time together will be infinite._

_Well in a brief moment of sanity, I came up with this hidden box, knowing after enough time had passed you’d come wandering around here hoping to find something and I had to find a way to get the last word you annoying dick. I always did appreciate that you gave me the privacy of this room. It must be boring in here, as I imagine I was to you. Anything you could deduce from my room, you already know. I’m sorry to have disappointed you, in more ways than just my lack of secrets. Chances are if you find this you are looking for some way to reach out to me and for whatever reason, I cannot return to you, either from death or a falling out too severe to ever mend. I think we both know the first is far more likely._

_As I’m sure you can tell by this room, I’m not a sentimental person. I don’t keep items that don’t serve a purpose, or, at the very least, I didn’t until I met you. You’ve changed me for, what I believe to be, the better. I started collecting things, much like how a serial killer collects trinkets to remember victims. They’re nothing important, and not evidence like you tend to keep, despite the illegality that you casually wave off. In fact, you may not even remember where most of these things came from, but I do. Perhaps I’m doing this more for myself. On occasion I have looked over these things, and found they remind me of what it’s like to walk the streets with you, to see the things you see, to see the whole world in a new light, to see the battlefield like never before. You’ll probably deduce quite a bit from this if I’m truly gone. But I hope one day you’ll move on with your life, as I hope one day I might move on with mine while I hold close to our story and cherish our time together._

_Just know Sherlock, I couldn’t have asked for a better friend with whom I could have and (if this is still in our flat when you find it) did share the rest of my life. And know I was happiest with you, Sherlock. With the cases, with the work, with our friendship, in our home. And, maybe, these items will bring you the comfort you need at a time when I cannot be there for you because someone has found a force strong enough to tear us apart._

_Good-bye Sherlock. And, because I never said it enough, thank you for saving me._

_Yours,_

_John Hamish Watson_

Sherlock stared at the letter as his breath came in shallow gasps, the paper shuttering in his shaking hands. To look away was Sherlock’s first thought, instead he let his eyes roam over the words in John’s careful handwriting. He bit his lip as he read the letter again. John must have written it several times. There were no errors, each word was written clearly, the ink showed no sign of hesitation, it was all written in an even, steady hand. It was perfect. He read it again, allowing the words to settle in his mind, committing every pen stroke to his memory before closing  the letter. He sat for a moment. Even when he closed his eyes he could still see the words.

His mind raced to John. Mycroft had told him about finding him in Sherlock’s room after his ‘death’. What was he doing in Sherlock’s room? Could he have expected that Sherlock had done something similar for him? That in his room there could be found a few final words to bring comfort. John had done this for Sherlock assuming that he would be the first to die, but there was nothing waiting in return when it was John left alone. Sherlocked looked down and saw the box, still clutched in his arm. The box which would contain small items of their entire friendship. He took a deep breath, folded the letter, and returned both it and the books to the case, just as it had been, as though he had never seen it.

Sherlock could hear talking downstairs. He leaned his back against the bookcase. From there he took one long, lingering look around John’s room. Sherlock had been considering a course of action, but sitting in this room it was all too clear what he needed to do. Sherlock was determined as he tried to stand to leave. Instead, he sank back to the floor as his legs gave out beneath him. He was amazed at how his mind couldn’t force him to do what his heart didn’t want. Sherlock took several deep breaths trying to get his body under control. He had said goodbye to John. That should have been the hardest part. He had agreed to leave him to live out the best life possible. But if he stayed in 221B, he could keep a version of John with him, and one day John would leave the hospital and return home to him. Instead, Sherlock knew the only way, to truly let go of John, the best way to let go of everything was to leave Baker Street.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he sat there. He wasn’t even sure why he was still there, except for the fact that he couldn’t seem to drag himself away. He knew what it meant to leave. He had forced himself to believe this was the way it had to be, because it was right for John. A clean break. He knew going downstairs meant he would have to fight Mycroft over this. For whatever reason, Mycroft was being exceedingly difficult since his return in his support of Sherlock. But he knew Mycroft would fight this decision. If John were here, he would fight it, too. But what did it matter? What did any of it really matter?

Besides he had things to do, cases to solve, preparations for the trial. He had to get back to work, do something, anything. After two years of always moving he was stalled in this place. If only he could leave the flat. It was too small. Had it always been this small? So enclosed and tight. And hearing the others downstairs speaking his name, did they ever talk about anything other than Sherlock? He hated it. Sherlock just needed to get out of the flat, walk about London, breath free air. He was suffocating. Nothing was killing him more than this room. This damn empty room. Sherlock reached behind him and grabbed a book off the shelf.  Sherlock looked down at the book.  _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_. It didn’t even look as though it had been read. Even his books lacked any personal touches.  No bent pages, marks, creases against the spine. Sherlock grew angry as he looked at the book. The whole room felt staged, and this book, this book was just like the rest of the room. Sherlock felt a burning need to change that. He looked at the book in his hand for a moment before he threw it at the wall across from him.

Sherlock relished in the noise it made, the way the book fell limp to the ground. The only thing out of place in the whole room. He reached behind him, grabbed another book without looking at it, and threw against the wall. It was a heavier book this time. This also hit the wall and fell to the ground. He turned around and searched the bookcase for a hardback. Of course John would only have paperbacks. He grabbed 3 off the shelf and threw them against the wall, again.. and again… and again this time letting out a roar of fury and pent up anger. The door opened.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mycroft asked as the door opened.

Sherlock grabbed another book and threw it towards the wall again, aiming for the sound of his brother’s voice. Lestrade appeared, snatching it out of the air before it hit Mycroft in the face. Sherlock stood up and went downstairs without a second look at John’s room. He brushed past Mycroft and Lestrade as he rushed down the stairs,almost knocking Molly over as he descended to the rest of the flat. Mrs. Hudson was at the bottom of the stairs with a cup of tea and biscuit. He pushed it away and stormed to his room, slamming the door like a petulant child. He could hear the footsteps of the others following him. Would they ever leave him alone? Sherlock locked his door just as they tried the handle.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Mycroft’s muffled yet stern voice demanded from the other side. “Open this door!”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He leaned his head against the door trying to collect his thoughts. With sudden determination Sherlock stepped to his bed, reached under, brought out his old case, and opened it on the bed. He went to his closet and began collecting his clothes. He took them to the case and dumped the clothes in taking no time to fold. He then grabbed everything from the rest of the room he would need. He would live like John, taking only the things that would serve an immediate purpose, leaving everything else behind. He could still hear Mycroft and Lestrade outside barking orders. They had instructed Molly go downstairs and watch incase he tried to leave out his window. Sherlock wasn’t planning on sneaking out, but he did need to get out of this place. He had to leave everything that reminded him of John and start his life anew. He took the case off his bed, unlocked the door.

Mycroft and Lestrade stood there. In unison they looked down to his case, then back to him. “What do you think you are you doing?” Mycroft asked.

“Tell Harry, anything John or anyone else wants is theirs. I’ve taken everything from here that I need.” He pushed his way past his brother and Lestrade as he went to the stairs to drop his belongings, ready for the fight that would surely come.

Mycroft walked towards his brother. “Sher-“

Greg put his hand against Mycroft’s arm to stop him and shook his head. He looked around the kitchen to make sure they were alone before he leaned in closer. “Mycroft. Let him make his own decisions. He can always come back, but he will always resent you if you don’t let him go on his own.” Mycroft looked to the open door where he could see Sherlock standing by the stairs, then to Lestrade again. “It’s for the best.”

Sherlock was walking into the living room. He packed his violin, case files for the trial, and, Mycroft and Lestrade noticed, grabbed the small union jack pillow that he had grown so fond of since his return. Mycroft put his hand to cover Lestrade’s that still rested on his arm.

“Very well. We couldn't stay here anyway. I was trying to find a way to insist he stay with me. Perhaps this is the best way.” Mycroft spoke up to allow Sherlock to hear. “I’ll call for the car.”

Sherlock leaned into the kitchen from the stairs and looked at Mycroft, his eyes narrowed. He couldn't understand why Mycroft had simply agreed to this. He didn’t like anything done in haste, preferring to weigh things out. He noticed, but didn’t let his eyes linger, on the fact that Mycroft’s hand covered Lestrade's on his arm. He hadn’t expected, how something like this made them look so complete, like the couple they were.

“You can always return for anything you need.” Mycroft said, hoping his brother realized he referred to John over any actual possessions.

“I have no need for anything else that could ever reside here” Sherlock muttered.

As Mycroft called for his car, Sherlock took one last look at 221B Baker Street letting his mind wander to the time spent with John. He thought on the late nights when they would talk until John slowly fell asleep in his chair before Sherlock would insist he go to bed. The quiet days when they were both engaged in their own activities, Sherlock in the kitchen with his experiments and John tapping away on the keys of his laptop. The first few mornings when John came downstairs to find Sherlock hadn’t moved from the night before and would check to see if he was still alive. He forced himself to return to the present, before his emotions caused him to change his mind and noticed Mrs. Hudson sitting on the couch by her tea tray. He walked over to her, the closer he got the more pronounced her sniffles became.

“Please, don’t go Sherlock.”

“I need to." Sherlock said as he knelt down in front of her. "It’s-“

“Don’t say it’s what's best for John, you didn’t see him alone in this flat. You weren’t with him. The last thing he needs is to know you’re alive and still come back to an empty flat. You aren’t giving him anything by leaving. You’re taking away any hope for happiness. It’s going to be worse knowing you’re alive and you could be with him, but you’ve chosen not to. And I think one day if you boys quit doing what you think you must for the other person, and start doing what’s right for yourself everything would fall into place. You wouldn’t have to run away and fight against it anymore. I know you’ve already made up your mind that you’re leaving without saying good-bye to John.”

“I’ve said goodbye.”

“You’ve said goodbye to the thought of John, not to John. Just think about it, Sherlock. When he wakes up, please, go see him. If you don’t, you will regret it for the rest of your life. You’re not making this easier on him. Now, your brother won’t say anything because he’s trying to keep peace between the two of you and he knows this isn’t easy. I’m sure he also feels a lot of guilt over what’s happened the past two years. But I don’t, so I will tell you what you need over what you want to hear. If you’re leaving because you need space, that’s fine. If you’re leaving to cut off ties with John, that’s not right. Just think about it Sherlock, and don’t make this a permanent decision.” By now, she was speaking through tears.

“The car is here,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock stood up before bending down to give her a hug. “You know, Mycroft will still pay for the flat.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“I know, but I think right now someone needs it more than I do.” Sherlock said as Molly came up the stairs. They both looked to her and Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Good. You’ll see, one way or another this will work out.” He picked up a biscuit from the tray and put it in his mouth, he turned and walked back to the stairs as he shouted over his shoulder “I will miss these though.”

“You never ate them.” Mrs. Hudson called back to him.

“I should have,” he said as he walked out the door. Mycroft and Lestrade heard him mutter as he passed, “I should have done a lot of things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to introduce and say a big thank you to my Beta and favorite.  
> You should follow her on Tumblr: pjo-tardis-at-221b.tumblr.com


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at Mycroft's estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Val, my boss who passed away Thursday morning after her battle with breast cancer which returned in October, after a 3 year absence.  
> You are missed greatly by all who are left to mourn you, and will always be the greatest example of strength, courage, and love despite the darkness you endured. I cannot thank you enough, for the year I was able to learn from you as your assistant. Your professionalism and friendship was above anything I could have imagined or hoped for when I came to work for you.  
> I hope you are finally at peace and happy.

The terms of his bail were nothing compared to Mycroft's rules. Sherlock spent his time confined to a small section of his brother's estate, as he didn’t seem particularly keen on Sherlock wandering about his home unsupervised. Mycroft had hired a security detail to stand watch outside Sherlock’s door, his window, and follow him everywhere he went. It was clear by the way they watched him that it was more to monitor Sherlock than actually protect him. He quickly grew tired of the rooms he had been given upon moving in. He spent most of his time in a small sitting room attached to his bedroom. The room was decorated in shades of light blue and dark green. With furniture which was made from mahogany, and looked as though it was from the late 18th century. Sherlock couldn’t shake the feeling that this room was meant to invoke a feeling of being outdoors. The occasional accessories about the room had been chosen and placed in a particular manor to create the illusion that the carefully staged room was full of whimsical qualities. They had been immediately removed and hidden by Sherlock, who found the small animal statues and faux flora unsettling. Before long, Sherlock had decorated the room to his standards. The stack of cases for his trial sat in the corner of the room, waiting for Sherlock to review them. Every morning he was offered a stack of books from his brother’s library and newspapers to occupy his time and keep him aware of current events as he was not permitted to have a mobile or computer. On occasion, when he would liberate Mycroft's mobile, he found himself at a loss what to do with it. At first he simply looked through the phone, but after reading several vivid texts between Mycroft and "G", Sherlock decided it was best to leave his brother’s phone with its owner.

“G” was a frequent guest of Mycroft’s. Sherlock saw Lestrade more since he had moved to Mycroft’s than he had while working cases with the man. The two of them appeared quite cozy together when they were blissfully unaware that they were being observed, yet professional when they were aware of Sherlock’s presence. He tried to ignore how often they would lock themselves in the oddest rooms. At first, he choose to believe that they were just discussing work related subjects, until they became so bloody loud that nothing was left to the imagination.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed since he left Baker Street. Logically, it must only have been a few weeks, but to him it felt as though it had been years. Time dragged on, but the thoughts never stopped. Sherlock had hoped that this time away from Baker Street would mean that he would begin to forget about John. But after two years of every other thought focusing on the hope of returning home to John. He imagined walking through the door to see John sitting in his chair reading, or at the table attempting to type on his laptop. He could imagine seeing John’s face light up the first few times Sherlock came home once he revealed himself. His face still showing the pure joy as he saw the proof that Sherlock was alive and real. He dreamed of those moments. But now they were ideals he knew would not come to fruition. He refused to torture himself with those images. John wouldn’t want to look at Sherlock the way he had imagined. And Sherlock realized more each day, that perhaps John would never look at him again. Instead of dwelling on these thoughts, he forced himself to occupy his mind. He decided to devise some mental exercises to use when his thoughts lingered on John. He learned pi to the 150th place. He listed the elements on the periodic table in reverse alphabetical order, then by year of discovery. But these things never worked in the end. How could he stop thinking about John unless he knew John was alright?

Logically, if anything important happened with John someone would tell him. For the time, Lestrade and Mycroft seemed unwilling to discuss anything regarding John in Sherlock’s presence. In fact, Lestrade’s entire demeanor changed shortly after Sherlock had taken up at Mycroft’s. Sherlock was under the impression that it was some form of jealousy that had taken root. Honestly, he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner. Since he had returned, he was under the impression the people around him were always watching him. It reminded Sherlock of school. And, although no one bullied or teased him, he found it disconcerting to walk into a room, have whispered conversations end and people turn to face him. It would be obvious to Anderson what was occurring. Sherlock just wanted this to end. He wanted to go back to a relatively normal life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was sitting spread out in his sitting room. If Mycroft came in, he would surely scold him and give some ridiculous lecture on the history of the furniture he was misusing. His legs hung over the back of the couch and his head rested on a coffee table. Anyone looking would probably assume he was dead, instead of simply recreating the position of a corpse from one of the cases they were to review in the trial. The room was silent, but his mind was loud with his memories of the case. Occasionally he found there was more to see from this angle. His mind conjured images of the house where the victim died. A faint, annoying noise crept into his mind. His eyes snapped open, glaring towards the ringing. Why Mycroft insisted on maintaining a landline, he would never understand. He would have thought that someone who held the most secretive information in all of England, would use nothing but mobiles with untraceable numbers. But Mycroft had always been a bit old-fashioned. The phone rang twice before it was answered. And Sherlock, looking for some distraction, clambered off the couch and quietly lifted the receiver that was in his room.

“If you had answered your other phone, I wouldn’t have called this one.” _Molly?_

“It must be important.”

“It is. Listen, you know I have a friend who’s been waiting for it to rain?”

“Yes.” Sherlock knew his brother could be secretive, but he had no idea Molly would have it in her. “What did they say?”

“Two days.”

“Two? That… seems sudden.”

“Some people are impatient while waiting for rain.”

Sherlock was starting to regret listening in. He thought it would be Lestrade and was hoping for something to entertain himself, or perhaps use to mock Mycroft that night. He hadn’t expected it to be about John. It was the only thing Molly and Mycroft would attempt to use code words to hide their meaning. “I’ve been talking to the Meteorologist a bit. It’s not great, it’s the best I can do. I think she might be fine if a little wind blew with the rain when it started.”

“How sure? If the wind blows, how sure are you that it can be there with the rain?”

_Wind?_ Was Sherlock meant to be the wind and John the rain? He contemplated how offended he should be, after all wasn't windbag meant to be an affront?

“I’m still working on it. I think if I go back it’ll be a gesture of goodwill from us.”

“I'm not sure how comfortable I am about the thought of you returning.”

“It'll be fine. I expect if there is an explanation, apology, or even an attempt to make amends, it could work. She might listen.”

Mycroft sighed. “I can’t help feeling that we’re forcing you into a dangerous situation. The last time we saw her-”

“She has never been anything but kind to me, right now she’s just being protective. I can understand that. But, I think, I think we just need to let them talk it out. I saw him.”

“The clouds?” Mycroft prompted.

“This is stupid, Mycroft. I don’t care if Sherlock hears. He has a right to know. I saw John. His vital signs are getting better. But something interesting happened while I was sitting with him. I mentioned Sherlock’s name, and it looked as though his vitals grew stronger. I know there’s this big debate regarding people in a coma and if they are aware of what’s going on around them, but I know what I saw. And I believe it would be the same if Sherlock was there when he wakes up, I really do. What John’s about to go through, he’ll need his friend.”

“Molly, Sherlock hasn’t been there for 2 years.” Sherlock fought a sigh as his brother echoed his own thoughts.

“Well I choose to believe that it will go back to normal between them, eventually. I just can’t allow myself to think anything else, because the world makes sense with the two of them together. I know they don’t see it, but everyone else does. I just... I just....” She was in tears by now, attempting to force her words out. Mycroft was silent.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he suddenly felt an anger build in him, realizing they sat there, plotting something he told them he didn’t want. They were playing games with his life. Molly was wrong. What was best for both of them was for John to live a normal life and for Sherlock to—it didn’t matter what he did. What mattered was that John would be taken care of by people who could love him. He had to do what was best for John. Sherlock hated how fast his resolve could come into question. He hadn't even been aware how quickly he had felt joy at the thought of seeing John. _It is right to let him go, it has to be the right thing. Isn’t the hardest thing always the right thing. What could be more difficult than letting John go?_

_Staying by his side._ A little thought came up. _That will be the hardest thing. To watch him go through what he’s about to endure and still stand by his side._

Why did that voice sound so much like Molly? He opened his eyes at the realization that he had spoken those words aloud into the phone.

“Sherlock? Are you still there? Talk to us.” Sherlock slammed the phone down in its cradle.

Molly was wrong, this was harder. It was far more difficult than being with John. He was giving up the only friendship he ever had. The hard thing is always the right thing.... Sherlock’s whole body began to shake violently. He quickly sank down to the floor, leaning his back against a wall for support as he tried to take deep breaths, to force his body under submission.

“Sherlock? Do you want to talk?” Molly was kneeling in front of him.

His eyes narrowed at her as he focused his gaze on her. “How did you get here so soon? Let me guess, you were here the whole time. Lovely little show Molly.”

“Sherlock, I called hours ago. I admit, I hoped you were listening. After what you said, I think we need to discuss what’s going on with you.” She made a show of making herself comfortable in front of him. “We are here to listen to what you have to say, and hope that you return the favor. After all, we are part of this too. You brought us into this when you left, regardless if you asked us or not.”

Sherlock saw movement in the doorway and noticed Mycroft and Lestrade had joined them. Lestrade’s arms were folded as he glared down at Sherlock his jaw visibly clinched, while Mycroft kept his haughty, neutral face intact. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sherlock, why you don’t want to see John? When you came back you were so excited to see him. Nervous, but excited. What changed?” Sherlock didn’t respond. Answering questions like this wouldn’t help anything. “Why do suddenly you not want to see John? Why have you decided he doesn’t need your friendship?”

“What good did my friendship do for him?” Sherlock asked before he could stop himself. “Besides, it wasn’t friendship. It was a professional relationship.”

“You don’t believe that Sherlock. You may be trying to convince yourself, but it’s not the truth. The truth is you were friends, but you had to leave. Neither of you were prepared for the sudden separation. Am I right?” Sherlock simply averted his gaze to focus on a spot of wall just over her right shoulder. He tried to slip into his mind palace, but a pain he had tried not to acknowledge forced him to stay in the moment and listen to what she said. “Neither of you handled it correctly. You threw yourself into your brother’s mission, John took another route. During that time, things happened to you both, and you aren’t the same people anymore. We don’t know how much John has changed… but we can tell you have. You aren’t the same person you were before you faked your death. You’ve tried to act as though you are, but there is a difference in you. You have become so hardened and distant to try to protect yourself. That’s almost how you were when I first met you, before you met John. So, why do you think you shouldn’t see him?” The room was silent for a minute. “Do you even care about him anymore?”

“Of course I do,” he whispered. “Against my better judgement, I do.”` 

“And….” Molly gently urged.

“But I have done something horrible to him.”

“What have you done?”

Sherlock glanced to her. “You need me to say it?”

Molly leaned forward. “I think you need to say it.”

“I led him to believe I was dead. I deceived him, and abandoned him for two years. Before that, I monopolized his time, made him as dependent on me as I was on him. I needed to keep him with me, to know the feeling of having someone who enjoyed my company. I wanted to share the way I saw the world with him. We never truly prepared for the day when one of us would have to leave the other.”

“That’s a nice sentiment Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his gaze becoming one Sherlock had grown accustomed to feeling in their younger years. “But you’re not giving us the real reason. In fact, you've almost repeated Ms. Hooper's words back to her.” Sherlock was silent. “Would you like me to invent a reason? We have discussed numerous possibilities. Now are you going to tell us, or will you force us to take a guess?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he tried to mask his face. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his thoughts. He imagined John sitting in front of him instead of Molly. _Why don't you want to see me, Sherlock?_  He felt the words flow out of his mouth. “Because John deserves a better life than what I can give him. He deserves to be reunited with his family… maybe have one of his own. He deserves a normal friendship, he deserves a normal career.”

“He doesn’t want normal,” Molly said, giving a slight giggle. “If he did, he would have left you a long time ago. He may have tried to capture something normal with dating and his job at the clinic. But those things soon passed away as he realized he didn’t want them. John was unable to cope because he had built his life around you… and suddenly you were gone. But now you’re here and life can go back to normal. Don’t you want that? Don’t you want John back?”

“Just because I want something doesn’t mean that it’s for the best of everyone involved. I would enjoy things returning to the way they were Molly, but they won’t. You said it yourself, John and I have changed these past two years. He’s not going to wake up the same person I knew. Do you think I haven't gone through this in my own mind? Do you think this is all new to me, what you’re saying? These are things I have already considered. It may not be what you want to hear, but I will speak my peace and I will be done with this… with all of this. John was my friend. Looking back I realize that he and I did not have a healthy relationship. I was possessive and I convinced him to spend time with me rather than see his family, go on dates, or make new friends… because I’m selfish and I was happy to have him. I thought, because all I needed was John and cases, that was all he would need as well. But I will not make the same mistake again, and if I do choose to see him again, it won’t be the same as before. He will be free to do anything he wants, and this time I won’t stand in the way of his life.”

“Sherlock, he’s going to need someone he knows right now. He’s going to need someone steady and constant.”

"I am none of those things, especially not to John.”

“But you could be.”

"That's not who I am. If I have to go again, where would that leave him? I can’t do that to him again. I won’t change my mind, Molly. Harry will be there for him.”

“Don’t you remember? He and Harry don't get on.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you think this is what’s best for him?”

“Because it’s what’s right for normal people.”

“He is far from normal."

“For Christ's sake. We’re not going to change his mind,” Lestrade said as he pushed himself from the wall he was leaning against. “Why are we wasting our time? Do whatever you want, Sherlock.”

He saw Mycroft look towards Lestrade, trying to make eye contact before he stormed from the room. Mycroft looked torn between following Lestrade and staying with Sherlock. 

"Just think about what we said.” Molly said as she patted his knee before standing. “If you ever want to talk, let Mycroft know and he'll get in touch with me. I’ll stop by occasionally, give you updates on him.” Sherlock nodded. She followed Mycroft out of Sherlock’s room, before she closed the door behind her, she leaned back into the room. “I think it’s time you took a break from all" she waved her hand to indicate the room "this. Don’t you?” She winked at him as she closed the door.

Sherlock leaned his head against the wall, and took a deep breath. Hearing his same thoughts echoed by Molly, Mycroft, and even Lestrade, affected him more than it should. Sherlock brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Molly was right, he needed to get out of there, if only for a moment. Perhaps it was time he attempted an escape.


End file.
